"incapacity" poems
A bird lived its life lonely,
None came for its help,
It kept hunting for fruit pulp,
Considered relations and family unholy.
When its mother lived on difficulty,
Other relative birds, treated it a person of mediocrity,
Refused to follow generosity without partiality,
To keep them safe, pretended their incapacity.
Elder sister of the lonely bird kept threatening,
About the future inabilities and loneliness,
For a family life, kept telling it undeserving,
Told it would face disappointments without liveliness.
Life kept the lonely bird, lonely,
The bird never cared about it,
It had its mother with it,
Life went lively & happily.
Lonely bird had a fear in its thought,
What happens, in loneliness if I am caught?
It felt severe anguish and fear,
On occasions, its heart fell in tear!
Its elder sister, treated it with disrespect,
In spite of it being, an aspiring intellect,
Life of lonely bird remained downward,
It got itself ready for situations untoward.
The lonely bird kept struggling and thriving,
With its ambition and goals put its life driving,
Going remained really impossible & tough
The path to dream remained very rough.
Its fellow birds, remained happily settled,
For lonely bird, things looked to be tangled,
It was skilled, opportunities remained disabled,
With rejections, life continuously growled.
The lonely bird wanted to turn phenomenal,
Didn’t look out to happiness personal,
It did not have family,
In its wealth remained, being hit poorly.
Life went downward with pause,
It was on long term ambition and cause,
The bird turned itself a hungry beast,
To put it away from loneliness, at least.
If none is there, to take care,
I would die! I would die!
For a worldly mission, if I dare!
Of loneliness, I would never cry!
Elder sister of lonely bird threatened,
You were born a layman
Will die an orphan!
Because you are a madman!
The lonely bird, responded for it in life,
I was born a layman,
Will fight for my mission like a madman,
Will die always fighting world evils as a spearman.
There was ring! There was a ring!
It was named Bhagat Singh!
It told me life is lived on its own,
Others shoulders are used at time of funeral.
There was an alarm! There was an alarm!
The name was Abdul Kalam,
It told me Always be the unique you,
Even if world wants to change you everybody else.
Loneliness sometimes hit it like thorn,
Nothing could make it torn,
Through difficulties it was born,
It lived life to make this world adorn.
Loneliness turns out ubique,
I am not alone! I am not alone!
I am an unshakable stone,
I am unique! I am unique!
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
They call me blessed,
But then I wonder;
Is being unlucky called being blessed?
Then they call me lucky,
Just because I survived;
Do they compare me with someone who died?
They want me to rejoice,
But what they call life,
Is always being in a mood to celebrate called life?
No.
It's called lies.
Incapacity to face the real truth.
Yes.
I will rise,
To give a surprise..
When the Sun rises at dawn,
When the darkness falls off,
When the memory fades away...
As the story goes on,
New leaflets are turned,
The suspense can only deepen!
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Devil's Dream
3/4 ounces of madness
1/4 ounce of insanity
1/4 ounce of delusion
1/2 ounce of darkness
1/4 ounce of incapacity
1/4 ounce of violence
6 ounces of nightmares
Combine all ingredients into a shaker,
Shake intensely for 10 minutes until thoroughly mixed up, strain into a high ball asylum unbreakable glass, top with gasoline, light on fire and serve.
This should make one hell of a drink.
Thank you for visiting Satan's Pub, please come back any time.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
Drawing upon the core of my being, I muster up the strength to survive.
Stepping into another plane of existence; one in which I have no capacity to resist toxicity; I am vulnerable.
A juggernaut lies at the end of the daylight hours; soft in temper and yet scourging in it’s pronouncements.
This is a being with no malicious intent; a sentinel guarding the sacred caliber of a spirit under divine instruction.
Darkness pervades in the form of light; I can sense a façade of purity within the confines of my bones.
This fortress that I have traversed into is infected with a murky haze looming just above the skies.
Escape is my only option; if I remain here it will be my demise.
When the juggernaut arrives, trepidation will electrify my soul; it will animate me.
Fear consumes me with every waking second I’m in it’s midst.
-This gargantuan being understands-
Empathy cannot save me however, once the utterances of ancient spirit inflict scathing wounds upon me in the name of humanity.
Attempting to rescue me from the tumult of the planet does not obscure the pain and heartache of compassionate words.
Wisdom lies within this walking tome; statue-esque maiden.
I have used my discernment as a bulwark; protection from wounds of sensitivity lies in detachment from myself.
I have come to realize that supplication does have a purpose.
-To plea with the remnants of a long forgotten world-
I am overwhelmed with euphoria when I realize that my fears have been nothing but stymie.
Fleeting in nature; they whispered to me of my incapacity to reach the heart of a relic growing wiser by the minute.
There is no judgment to be passed and I have been emancipated from the shackles of a foreshadowing past.
It leads to my genesis; the day when I shall be lifted up past all my iniquity.
Until that day, I await the metamorphosis of an ailing planet.
The Juggernaut does have a purpose.
This maiden shall be a beacon amongst the tumult of the seasons.
I shall look to her as a guide and honesty is what shall pervade from her lips.
In trueness she shall bestow her utterances upon me.
Like the sweetest honey, her words will befall my eardrums.
Internalization spurs a chemical reaction within me.
I am changing.
I have been enveloped by blinding rays of light.
The darkness is no match for the spiritual sinew that I possess.
I am growing by the second… I am growing prayer by prayer.
-Amen-
By Iridescently Efflorescent
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
Drawing upon the core of my being, I muster up the strength to survive.
Stepping into another plane of existence; one in which I have no capacity to resist toxicity; I am vulnerable.
A juggernaut lies at the end of the daylight hours; soft in temper and yet scourging in it’s pronouncements.
This is a being with no malicious intent; a sentinel guarding the sacred caliber of a spirit under divine instruction.
Darkness pervades in the form of light; I can sense a façade of purity within the confines of my bones.
This fortress that I have traversed into is infected with a murky haze looming just above the skies.
Escape is my only option; if I remain here it will be my demise.
When the juggernaut arrives, trepidation will electrify my soul; it will animate me.
Fear consumes me with every waking second I’m in it’s midst.
-This gargantuan being understands-
Empathy cannot save me however, once the utterances of ancient spirit inflict scathing wounds upon me in the name of humanity.
Attempting to rescue me from the tumult of the planet does not obscure the pain and heartache of compassionate words.
Wisdom lies within this walking tome; statue-esque maiden.
I have used my discernment as a bulwark; protection from wounds of sensitivity lies in detachment from myself.
I have come to realize that supplication does have a purpose.
-To plea with the remnants of a long forgotten world-
I am overwhelmed with euphoria when I realize that my fears have been nothing but stymie.
Fleeting in nature; they whispered to me of my incapacity to reach the heart of a relic growing wiser by the minute.
There is no judgment to be passed and I have been emancipated from the shackles of a foreshadowing past.
It leads to my genesis; the day when I shall be lifted up past all my iniquity.
Until that day, I await the metamorphosis of an ailing planet.
The Juggernaut does have a purpose.
This maiden shall be a beacon amongst the tumult of the seasons.
I shall look to her as a guide and honesty is what shall pervade from her lips.
In trueness she shall bestow her utterances upon me.
Like the sweetest honey, her words will befall my eardrums.
Internalization spurs a chemical reaction within me.
I am changing.
I have been enveloped by blinding rays of light.
The darkness is no match for the spiritual sinew that I possess.
I am growing by the second… I am growing prayer by prayer.
-Amen-
By Iridescently Efflorescent
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
<>
Saturday
September
21st
2019
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
"I've been told that to fix the problem, you must first find its root... But you can't fix something that's not broken. I am not broken, just slightly damaged. My mind is like a thousand year old oak tree, and my facade as fragile as porcelain. My emotions act as a wrecking ball and when the night hits I'm nothing but a decaying mask. I fear pain, so I don't welcome love. I turn it away; a ruthless rejection, and send it back to where it came from. It haunts me, and in the night my own demons become insomnia. To fix the problem, I must first find its root."
Or perhaps I mustn't focus on finding the root, I think the real issue might be that I am conscious that there are monsters in my head and my insomnia is result to the ongoing battle I have with myself and those monsters. Weather to love them or hate them, I do not know. They save me and protect me, yet they seclude me from the rush of risk and beauty of bewilderment. When I lay in my bed my body feels great fatigue but my mind and my eyes are wide awake; ready to run circles around the world if they could. I no longer think that the solution would be to find a root or a specific turning point, but to end the battle of contradiction with the monsters that have taken over my thoughts and stolen my sleep. So do I love them because they protect me and have made me a smarter person? Or Do I hate them because they are the bricks that make up the walls I have built and they are the guards holding the riffles at the top of the walls shooting every single beautiful daring soul in their attempt to reach the real me? I will hate them. Yes the souls that have hurt me right after gaining my trust are the reason to my hurt and the nutrition to the growth of my monsters, but the very own monsters themselves are the ones responsible for my inability to recover from the inevitable hurt. They have Inprisoned me in this constant dark and uttermost thick desolation. It is because of how overpowered I am by them that I fail every single time in my attempt to breath. They are suffocating me and burying me in a state so dark I fear the incapacity to get myself out. It is a journey of endless work, the wounds i have will eventually heal, but there will always be scars. It's like an addiction, even after being clean and sober the want of the drug will always be as great as it was the first time. So the fragility of my scars is so great it is completely capable to revert me back into the dark whole if i get hurt or scared again. i need to realize and accept that these things are inevitable and not close myself but open myself even more for the next person. The final solution will be to accept that the mosters?they are their, acknowledge them, deal with them, and never let them take over and do what they want with me. Then and only then will I be able to sleep.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
You cannot resurrect
Memories
That
Have wedged themselves between
The future and the past,
Yet are too fragile to
Exist within the present—
You cannot
Resurrect
The way you felt
(The way you felt invincible)
In remembering mannerisms that outlive
The moment.
You cannot reconcile
The heart's defiance,
Deliberately giving yourself to
A void not of your own,
Gathering gathering gathering
Sentiment and stitching it into
The fabric of your narrative,
When you should have
Gathered your senses in a pail
And lowered them down into a wishing well...
You cannot resurrect what never
Wholly, entirely, unconditionally
Existed without
Your warm breath
Encompassing it in meaning,
Feeding an emptiness not of your own making.
Yet,
You cannot escape it either;
So it lingers:
Your regrets, your self loathing, your incapacity
To accept that
There is no way to breathe life back into
Something that was dead before you
Pressed its surface with your fingers,
As if you, yourself could
Impose a pulse upon what you could not
Understand.
Understand this,
Time will not resurrect
That which you long for in the night,
It will not reconcile
The incongruent nature
Of desire:
To feel
To be numb
To hold on to
To understand
To forget
To destroy
To save
Save like a wilted flower pressed between
Two aged, yellowed pages: present only in its allusion to the past.
You do not wish the flower a different fate,
To fill its dried up veins with green, pulsating life,
To have it become what it once was.
You cannot reconcile the purpose of its carefully preserved petals.
You do not question its existence,
Question why it has been uprooted from the ground,
Why it has changed shapes while remaining a flower.
It was never meant to remain the way it was.
And so, it exists
As an indicator of what it once was,
As a reminder that it will never be again,
As memories do
When we press them down
Between the past and the future,
Until like the dried up flower,
They cease to change,
As we continue.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
Close some doors today, not because of pride, incapacity, or arrogance, but simply because they lead nowhere - Paulo Coelho
Nowhere hurts more than nothing.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
The New York City skyline
from across the water;
sunsets at sea;
the shadows of clouds
shifting over treetops;
my sisters wishing on
a shooting star;
the sunrise over the desert
from a hot air balloon;
the warmth and light of a
campfire as the voices rise
into the sky with the embers.
And I have tallied up these
beautiful things and kept
tabs on them, memories like
index cards in my mind, labeled,
categorized, logical, the way
I like my things to be:
*landscape, cityscape, skyline,
harmony, melody, warmth,
friendship*
and then somewhere in the back
of the drawer is a folder, a
category that is not a category
and it is spilling into the
other categories and it
is disorder and the absence
of order, the incapacity to
categorize beautiful things
overflowing, not logically
and then, there's you
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
Suffocating in this state of mind
Like a grain of soil
On the wall of a
perpetually filling
Bottomless pit.
All stale
and collapsing mud.
I can’t breathe
And it is dark in here
In this silence
In this wet and stifling
***** blanket
Of thin smiles
That veil
filth and dirt.
Gritty, I can taste discontent
( restlessness stirred, agitated, weeping)
Like a thorn in the side
Of this torn and invisibly stitched mouth.
My fingers bleed
And doubt seeds
Vicious weeds inside
An already
sick and nauseated mind.
There is hurt in here
And pain
And the bittersweet unspoken
refrain
Of one lost in their
Own directionless
Domain.
These walls I built, alone.
That stare back careless
And greet me daily with their
Cold embrace.
In this darkness, alone,
I, us, we,
cry.
Small children,
Whimpering in this feeling
of self chafed friction.
Whining,
each whine followed by
Gutteral, viscous, primal mutterings
These madman
Me, myself and i
Locked in a tunnel
Without light
It is cold and we want so badly
To relight the fire
I
claw at the fortification
I have erected
Around myself
Then bleed some more
Until the walls in front of me turn from
la mort noire to
rouge de sang
Sitting here
In this
Abyss.
Blinded by the inability to see
The incapacity to feel
Anything but the feeling of failure.
This powerlessness to heal,
All sealed up and drowning
in my private pool of mud.
Still it is dark in here,
And wet,
And bloodied
And brooding.
The cold walls are soothing
And the veil still acts
To conceal
The extent of filth
Scourging up the walls
Of this inaudible and bidding cave.
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
Why am I crushing myself
to death and beyond?
Feeling bereft
for that which I haven't
touched in years.
Leadening my heart,
and dragging my feet
because each step
is a step further
from lightness and youth.
I bore myself with this weight.
Loathe the tyranny,
and mighty pressure
inside my head
which threatens incapacity
of reason every ten seconds.
Why did he come back at all?
If only to suffuse me
with the promise of nothing,
and the intangibility
of all ****** lovers?
And, forgive me,
for ****** is how I feel.
Self-pity, you old devil!
I shall have this out of me,
or pick over it
'til my heart lays waste
all good intent.
I wish to be suspended,
as the crystallised air,
inside the strange house.
Where, this morning,
I chanced upon myself in mercury,
and tumbled through the ages.
As rose-heads wither on the stem,
my head shall fall
upon my chest with piquant,
silent longing.
And so, unto history
a dream shall die.
Should I die with it?
Or resurrect a steely charm?
Neither, sweet prince,
for your fleeting
and unseen visit
has taken my soul.
And, thus protected
from the whimsy of flattery
I stand, without notion,
of which way to turn
upon a once-clear pathway.
Should I chance you in my dreams,
I would but falter at your beauty,
though fail to recognise you -
for I no longer trust
what my eyes alight upon.
I am torn -
lamenting and tidal -
with hands that were always empty.
So what have I lost?
Nothing, that is all.
Nothing at all.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
Your bouts of literary thoughts spewing all over do not make sense.
Your incapacity to formulate a whole and worthy thought has gotten the best of you fooling you into thinking that someone, somewhere is listening.
Stop.
Stop. you must stop.
Your insensitive belief that everyone is falling head over heels for your talent, popularity and deep sense is proving to be a lie. I say all this sincerely with hatred, love and everything in between because I won't be good enough for you.
So stop.
Stop. Stop existing in my world.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
Splints are beginning to break,
wounds are seeping through the bandage,
sores have become infected,
scabs picked and pulsating--
Aspirin won't take away the throbbing pain,
nor will morphine numb the brain--
the leg below the ****** turniquet
grows gangrenous.
Maggots inching closer,
flies eagerly buzzing overhead,
divebombing into ruptured flesh
oozing blood and pus--
the body bag lingers menacingly
sporting its gaping maw,
hungry for mangled flesh
and broken bones.
Bloodshot eyes pleading,
crooked mouth on a broken jaw begging,
a sick contortion of a once beautiful body
****** forlornly on busy streets--
writhing in the weak mortal vessel that damns them.
---
How long?
How long has it been lying there?
Trying hopelessly to stand stumbling like an old dog
in its final moments of consciousness
before the impending ejection--
how many have passed it by
with a blind salute
and a knowing fake smile?
How long must this poor soul drudge through time
slowly draining its insides
and flesh feasted by the flies,
dragged along by marionette strings--
when will we see this creature,
in need of its good samaritan--
when will we stop the transient fix,
peel off the blood-soaked bandages,
and ultimately stare into the fissures
for a final, effective prognosis?
Look this ******* in the eye,
peruse its peeling sallow skin
hanging loose off cadaverous limbs--
lying,
gasping cries rendered soft moans,
lying in a cesspool of ****** fluids--
**** and **** and blood and pus
drowning within itself--
trace your fingers along the scars and wounds,
inhale the stink of death,
accept your incapacity to understand the weight of its history--
a great anguish heralded by generations afore.
Do not, then,
think it wise to abandon the poor wretch,
as your forefathers had done--
The Poison lies within you.
To heal, then--
is not a matter of medicine,
is not a matter of science,
is not a matter of faith--
it is a matter of action.
It is sick.
It is dying.
And it will take us all with it.
Would you die for its sins?
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
She did this.
She always does.
Sending me into the dark,
Just when everything seems to be falling into place,
She has a break down.
Swiftly falling out of grace.
Gratifying a taste for violence,
And gratuitous self medication.
It makes the reckless danger,
Enough to satisfy her impulsive nature.
She’s so emotional,
Empty and vulnerable.
Afraid of every wandering thought.
A picturesque noir,
I know it’s all her fault.
She isn’t real.
I’ll say in repetition.
Paranoid and anxious,
She persuaded separation.
Attempting to restore,
Something that was tainted.
Polluted by self hatred,
She suddenly falls prey.
To her own incapacity,
To love and be loved.
This impossibility,
Seemed like everything.
Regret is useless.
She did this.
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
Dear Sirs or Madams,
Of a literary persuasion.
I write today with,
A professional inclination.
I fear, and worry, my imagination’s clock,
Has, sadly, hit a writer’s block.
In short, I hope
(with a hesitance, hereout),
To employ the services of a muse.
Both, male and female,
Are encouraged to apply,
Though, I admit, my bias may lie,
Towards those who kindness, mercy and love,
Are praised and placed inherently above,
The human desires of power and wealth
And selfish ambition and pride in themselves.
Though, I suppose, this seems hypocritical,
I would confer this is politically cynical,
Rather, I’m looking for something. . . irrational,
An inspiration to fuel and flame my passion as,
Something and someone,
Yet, nothing and no one,
An ideal, an idol, a god and a human.
Something to write about,
A story to tell.
A depiction of the fire inside them that dwells.
The light, the colour the sun in their eyes,
The mountains and jungles, though secret, resides,
The palaces, mansions and kingdoms that hide,
Though present, disguised and entwined in their mind.
Alas, I digress,
Too often, I confess,
My mind wanders and turns,
Till I’m lost and undressed,
Left naked of topic, ideas and abreast,
Of chemical incapacity,
Of pure relativity,
So, a point of focus, a centre,
I seek, you see?
To aim my passion and love and thoughts,
And kindness and lust and heart, of course.
So please,
If you find yourself,
So inclined,
Write to introduce,
And flirt with my mind.
Tease with your words,
And caress with your lips,
And, if it elicits a feeling within,
I’ll write you a letter,
Of black ink emotion,
And seal it with blood,
And endless devotion.
Send it on its way,
To rest in your hands,
We’ll see where it takes us,
Let fate make her plans.
Yours forever,
Your humble admirer.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 5:18 AM UTC
Not by the cerebral unease
of paradox, shadows agreeing
to disagree (knowing they
are more substantial than things).
Not by the world being taken
away from those who must
observe days.
Not by the incapacity for a
fitting end to those observing
days...do I state, the time is short...
yet no unit shall have its fill of you.
Konstantinos Mark
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Nothing scares me more than the thought
That I can become lesser
To someone who once loved me in entirety
What if my insecurity that she always helps to quell
Becomes a burden in her every day
What if the creativity
That she once saw in my every song
And poem
Becomes nothing more than another word
Carelessly placed
What if my once compelling conversational topics
Become but an obligation to reply
What if the things that hold us together
Right now
Are made nonexistent
And my words don't flow like they used to,
That my voice doesn't sing as well as it should do
Nothing scares me more
My inability to take a step back and stay calm
My perpetual insecurity and need for assurance
My incapacity to overlook the things that don't matter
I'm being pessimistic because I know she loves me
But I can't shake off the thought that
Everything she now knows about me
Has already begun to seem unappealing
The thought that the spark we set alight
Could have already begun to burn out
Because people fall out of love
For the same reasons they fell in it
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 5:19 AM UTC
Sometimes it's hard
to admit who we are
unapologetically.
Nothing hits me harder to the core
than not feeling heard.
That moment suspended in time
in which I try
to explain just how I feel
and they don't understand
they can't comprehend.
It's not a fault or a point to blame
it's not my lack of ability to explain
it's because they are not me
and she is not he
and we will never be
each other.
I can say who I am,
but from where they stand
a mile, a yard, or enough to touch hands
the distance is too far to for them to see
no matter how eloquently I speak
So I set myself free.
Instead of beating myself up
and saying I didn't try hard enough
it could just be
their own incapacity
to understand just who I am.
It could just be
they can't see me
because they haven't found
their identity.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
i guess all those nights i spent studying
just weren't worth it.
and the hot flashes of nausea that kept me from sleeping
were just warning me of my incapacity.
and my cuticle-less fingers that dripped blood on the exam paper
must not have been wanted it enough.
and my stupid brain was foolish enough to believe that
i'd "done my best"
(was it? was that all i could have done? ever?)
god what was the point of it.
god it's not even that big of a deal.
god you're just stupid and you're inefficient.
god maybe you should have just done better
god you just can't get it can you
god if this is hard, imagine college
god stop! stop hitting your wrist against the table, it's not helping!
god google it, can you lose your academic gift?
god imagine their faces when they see your score
god how will you hide it now
god help me i can't go back don't make me go back please please
god wow you really thought you did well you thought you earned it
god what if you didn't care about it, then it wouldn't matter
god imagine that, you don't study, and all the expectations are gone
god imagine that, you don't try.
you don't try.
oh.
maybe i shouldnt try anymore maybe i shouldnt try anymore maybe i shouldnt try anymore maybe i shouldnt try anymore maybe i shouldnt try anymore i shouldnt try anymore i shouldnt try anymore i shouldnt try anymore i shouldn't try i shouldn't try i shouldn't try i shoudn't try i shouldn't try i shouldn't try i shouldnt try i shouldnt i shouldnt i shouldnt i shouldnt
Nov 28, 2024
Nov 28, 2024 at 12:21 AM UTC
my elders consider my punishment like prison
separated from my phone but linked to a chain in my home
for 7 days any kid my age wouldn't survive but suffer
what's for supper?
wait, last night double pound
McStuffer burger?!
but dad...
mother!
I'm trying a new diet tonight and am in immediate incapacity
of filling my bottomless pit's wildest delights
perhaps an offer...(?)
every night I must survive
we can all share a nice family supper
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 1:39 AM UTC
it has always baffled me across age and time how parents can sacrifice there children happiness on the altar of love to protect there own self centered ego. to protect there ideal ideology of themselves. God help anyone that dare to scratch that image for hell had no fury than a content-less character being unveiled as a fraud. God gives gifts called children for reasons known to him alone this does not excuse anyone from honoring this decision after all we call our selves Christians translated into followers of Christ who loved and honored his father. instead there is endless failures fueled by incapacity to accept and love without agenda's. not love believed but love experienced one rain drop into a bucket meant to over flow.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
With a broken wrist
on my right hand
due to a fall at a litfest in city
I staggered back on a Sunday noon
swelling, pain and fear ,
helpless to do anything...
then consultation, x’ray, surgery,
implant inside with a stout bandage,
a sling to announce my incapacity
as my bank balance drained.
dependency for every small thing....
shattered and desperate i sit .
not used for a such a state
my mind raising to tempers
whole personality changed
to irritation seeking loneliness.
and as mind was calm once
my left is fine it dawned...
my memory clicked pictures
of children and others , with no hands
at birth or mutated due to mishap ;
browsing the internet on laptop
got inspired; my left hand fingers started
typing on keyboard slowly and wrongly
determination helped speed with no mistakes
and after sixty days my first left handed poem
I dedicate to all those with various disabilities;
and surgeons, assistants and nurses,
others who helped to cope up in hospital bed
and family and friends kind enough to care
with constant dos and donts as i move around -
now with an arm band and a smile on my face!
............................................................................
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
The knife scalps it,
The chaplain advised them to watch and pray,
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse,
Once or twice this side of death,
He will just do nothing at all.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC