"independently" poems
Dissociation:
noun
the disconnection or separation of something from something else or
the state of being disconnected.
CHEMISTRY
the splitting of a molecule into smaller molecules, atoms, or ions,
especially by a reversible process.
PSYCHIATRY
separation of normally related mental processes, resulting in one group functioning independently from the rest, leading in extreme cases to disorders such as multiple personality.
Dissociation is not trendy.
It’s not just depression or starring into space.
It’s so much more
It’s crawling away form reality and making
a home in your head.
Losing contact with your body.
Dissociation is not knowing who you are.
Dissociation is watching yourself in third person.
Dissociation is feeling so scared that you’d rather loose
yourself entirely then live in the present.
Dissociation is not always multiple personalities
but sometimes no personality.
It’s losing time.
It’s not recognizing those you love.
It’s having little to no memory of
anything that happened after the fifth grade.
its knowing faces but not exactly sure where
from.
It’s a defense mechanism.
It’s writing your name on the back of your hand to not
completely lose all of you.
It’s wearing a rubber band to snap yourself back
because you have taught yourself to know
when you are losing yourself
It’s getting help,
because you know in your very few
lucid moments that this is not normal.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
My heart was mechanical
Oiled always by love
Cogs moved independently
Springs always moving in rhythm
This was love in my heart
Intricate pieces moving as one
Affection,
Emotion,
Trust,
Was what fuelled this love
It beat strong
Never wearing down
Always would it beat strong
But then betrayal
Disloyalty,
Sorrow,
Neglected
Dirt had entered this heart
Oil contaminated
Springs oxidized
Cogs bent out of shape
Broken parts,
littered the floor of this heart
What once ran smooth,
Started to go cold
Cobwebs,
Vines,
Empty,
Was this damaged heart
Where once movement
Who could mend
This once loved heart,
Then the tinkerer entered her life
Full of friendship
It took Time, for her to let him in
But what once was reclusive
Friendship,
Blew the cobwebs away
Companionship
Cut the vines away
Loyalty
Filled that empty space
Love
Was the catalyst, that started
This clock work heart again,
Some piece, still lay
On the hearts floor,
For if a clock work heart is broken
It will never be as it was before,
The rust faded oiled once more
A clock work heart is a fragile Piece,
Only give it to those who will
Hold it gently in there grasp.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 7:12 AM UTC
she likes to dance in cemeteries naked
warring little but jeweled ***** bells,
ankle bracelets
toe rings
bingles, bangles, piercings,
through ******* and nose
her tongue split
each side wiggling independently
she gives head on a head stone
her blow jobs
like two undulating mouths
her skin inked with
black and blood tattoos that say
*Satan's little ***** *****
double penetrations preferred porfavor
the more buttery big ***** and pastry puffy ******* the better*
she
all purple hair tinged red
and antler horned hat
with silver toe and finger nails
a crazy saint sane
adored by the popes of the lascivious
eyes wide open over a crimson mouth sneer
cherry pout lips
gods gift to ***** and vaginas
a temple of relief exalting
Eros
a **** it bucket list of lust
her heart
cotton candy in flames
****** like a river of smashed potatoes
in cream
she like
phases of a corpse moon
begs to be used after death
like pigment on canvas
smeared red globes and chiaroscuro
she playing dead
living it up
do you know her
she keeps her secret hidden
on her sleeve
while you keep yours
from yourself
*bless me father for I have sinned
and loved every minute of it
yet dare not be happy
for fear of Gods rage*
my soul saved
turned fertile earth to sand
and shrouding vistas of light
till the bed is the bed
of the living dead
so there's nothin left but work and sleep
and dreams of drunken **** madness are buried
under the weight
marked forbidden
black sun curse
hips sway in ashes
a forbidden dance
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
Independent clauses never see cause for a
But, we coordinate conjunctions like its our job and,
So we work independently to avoid fused run-ons since who likes those anyway?
Pause,
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
Black and white and red, green, blue
Black and white and red, green, blue
Black and white and red, green, blue
Black and white and red, green, blue
We're building a sounder nation
We're building a sounder nation
We're building a sounder nation
We're building a sounder nation
Echo, echo, echo, echo
Echo, echo, echo, echo
Echo, echo, echo, echo
I can't hear you
An independent mind that thinks
An independent mind that thinks
An independent mind that thinks
An independent mind that thinks
Politicians, Mobs, Celebrities
Politicians, Mobs, Celebrities
Politicians, Mobs, Celebrities
The really really big big three
We're going down and down and down
We're going down and down and down
We're going down and down and down
There's nothing we can do
Ignorance leads us to stupidity
Ignorance leads us to stupidity
The gateway to stupidity
Ignorance is insanity
More control over the masses
More control over the masses
Gas, tax, and uneven grasses
More control over the masses
Half of what we used to have
Half of what we used to have
Half of what we used to have
And still no time to talk
Keep feeding all our enemies
Keep feeding all our enemies
No brains for independancy
We're feeding all our enemies
How can we lose everything?
How can we lose everything?
d*ck Cheney making Bling Bling Bling
And we're here losing everything
With nothing left we close our mouth
With nothing left we close our mouth
With nothing left we close our mouth
How stupid can we be?
We want to stay alive, we're dead
We want to stay alive, we're dead
We're dead if we say one wrong word
We want to stay alive, we're dead
We can't think independently
We can't think independently
We must believe, believe, believe
We can't think, we can't think
Echo, echo, echo, echo
Echo, echo, echo, echo
Echo, echo, echo, echo
I can't hear you
We're building a sounder nation
We're building a sounder nation
We're building a sounder nation
We're building a sounder nation
Black and white and red, green, blue
Black and white and red, green, blue
Black and white and red, green, blue
Black and white and red, green, blue
1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
I see the violence,
I hear no laughter,
It's all faith to capture;
I can feel the rapture,
Disaster another chapter,
Darkness within these walls,
a fall,
No more buildings too tall.
Fire choking the young,
It's only just begun.
There's no sun,
We hear a bomb,
Run,
Innocent children,
Deprived of fun,
Shrapnel flying everywhere,
Smoky air,
Streets are bare,
It's all despair,
I feel the Animosity,
Subconsciously,
Knowing I'm dead probably,
We do this to our society,
Because we have religion and rivalry,
Violently, involved yet independently,
You walk so silently,
Scared of your own shadow frightfully,
Tirelessly,
With your messed up psychiatry,
That’s irony.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC
Pandas are fluffy. Labradoodles are…
Bake the road, crush the world.
Richard Feynman, Freddie Mercury?
Can you be unique?
We are defined not by ourselves
but by the Television set
by the media
by our leaders
What the hell is this Orwellian nightmare?
Do we exist independently?
Individuality is discouraged
unless you have money
This postmodern splash
The drones of nighthawks, flapping by the shores
The shores of Calavera, of San Luis Obispo
If the mountains drifted out to sea
Let the toaster rule you.
Let the media.
Not like you can stop them.
Wheee! Ride, piggy, ride!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
Appreciate,
No matter how small you think something is,someone somewhere wishes for that very thing,
Appreciate,
No matter how bad you think your life is,someone somewhere can't even breathe independently,
Appreciate,
As you're hating on your body remember that someone somewhere has no limbs,sight nor hearing ability,
Appreciate,
Its easy to take our families and friends for granted,but we must
Appreciate them.
For others wish they had even just one friend.
Appreciate.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
Independent
A bit headstrong,
Her kindness,
Transcendent
Her accent shapes her character.
She doubts her abilities
When she is among the strongest
The hurt of her people
Is all she sees
She’s learning to look in the mirror
Not to see the imperfections
But all the possibilities
She rarely forgets
Although she hides behind a silhouette
A fierce protector
Without discrimination
They can’t all defend themselves
So she steps in
She will give her life for her country
And for it
They love her.
I hope she sees the change she creates
A magnificent ruler.
Each step in her red spiked boots
Paving a new path
For those forgotten or lost
Walking with her,
Their roots
She takes their hand
And leads them on
No persecution
Only solutions.
A tireless advocate for those without.
No need to ask
She understands her task
…………………………….
Could you use some help?
No need to ask
Just open your eyes
And seek her out
She’ll find you
Eventually
She sees through it
The lies.
I hope one day this queen
Will find a proper king
For now she rules independently
Fighting
Endlessly.
Dec 17, 2021
Dec 17, 2021 at 10:29 PM UTC
To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries
Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written
Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical
To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself
To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets
The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy
In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur
To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words
And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar
On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems
I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
several snakes spiraling
hissing a message in her ear
telephone is dialing
waiting for a call from someone dear
(on the velveteen tangerine)
roller skated through the town
laces strangle each other like constrictors
gravity is upside down
the pair of skates are like twin sisters
(on the velveteen tangerine)
ivy climbing legs and boughs
stemming into leaves and flowers
time is spinning backwards now
the clock has been gone for hours
(on the velveteen tangerine)
cream and sugar sweet
share a cup of tea with company
friends talk about their week
lounging in the leafy canopy
(on the velveteen tangerine)
eyes stare at the strange sight
unattached and independently
moonlight shines on glades of green at night
trees blend into starry scenery
(on the velveteen tangerine)
citrus spheres hang from tree limbs
peel the hard rind to make it nice
pick one or a dozen at your whim
drink sweet juice or swallow a slice
(on the velveteen tangerine)
beware of seeds and centipedes
but take a chance and you will dance
with delight around midnight
on the velveteen tangerine
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 10:57 PM UTC
I placed you in the box,
the padded box that seemed too small
torn from galloping heart,
fingers fumbling for stubborn clasp,
I focus for just one moment
Place you in that small padded box.
I watch as,
night tucks away all things
As bed bugs are wished away
But teem beneath the sheets
As closets checked for monsters
whisper into darkness:
“things not always as they seem.”
You, the necklace, must agree,
For I laid with such ease,
Your slinking arms
Your solid charm
That was winning to anyone
You met.
And I watched whenever I could,
To ensure the box was still,
but then again
who’s to say
That I wasn’t just moving,
In opposite directions
With myslinking arms
And lack of charm
That shied away with
That very same ease.
But either way,
Living independently,
Our motions certainly did not cancel,
Whatever it was that we did-
And no matter
how carefully you were lain-
You awoke tangled.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
What is originality anymore?
The pop songs we listen to day in day out,
That are only updated remixes of
Songs that our parents
Already know every lyric to.
Is it the pranks we play on each other at school,
Poking holes in the top of water bottles,
So we don’t get caught when we try to catch our class mates.
Drowning them
In carbonated energy drinks.
Don’t think you’ll get away with it.
The teachers already know,
About flicking elastic bands at the backs of girls knees,
So they scream a little louder
And turn around to see
Boys smirking faces,
Because they have been there before.
Define originality.
Originality
. /əˌrɪdʒɪˈnalɪti/
noun
1. the ability to think independently and creatively.
•the quality of being novel or unusual
synonyms: inventiveness, creativeness, creativity, innovativeness, innovation, novelty, freshness, newness, imagination, break with tradition, resourcefulness, cleverness, daring, individuality, unusualness, unprecedentedness, uniqueness, distinctiveness
.
Is it smuggling ***** in water bottles,
Or sneaking down to the back garden
To have one last cigarette with your friends,
At 1am
On New Years
When you have had more to drink than your parents
Yet you are only 15.
Watering down whiskey from your parents liqueur cabinet
With apple juice.
Getting caught drunk
After being out with friends, Stumbling in at 2am
On Sunday morning.
Storming up to your room
After having a row with your parents.
Slamming the door,
Screaming at the floor,
Calling a friend,
And ******** about the people who brought you into this world.
Maybe
I’m not as good with words
Than I thought I was
O r i g i n a l i t y I s D e a d
Your parents Grandparents
Aunties and uncles
Have seen it all before
It’s a fact of growing up
And one day
You will too know
Exactly how it is
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Trauma lives on in our bodies
In sometimes unexpected places
It doesn’t just reside
In the malfunctioning lump
Of electrified meat
Encased in my skull
Each part of my body
Seems independently determined
To avoid
To protect me from
Vulnerable or defenceless moments
When the speaker at a training event
Asks the participants in the room
To close their eyes
Partake in a thought experiment
The trauma resides in my eyelids
Which I cannot will to shut
I stare down at the floor
Eyes open in unwilling resistance
The simple act of closing them
In a room full of strangers
Is more than my body can bear
When going on long car rides
The trauma resides in my jaw
Compulsively chewing gum
To stop myself falling asleep
In the passenger seat
Maybe I can retain
Some small semblance of control
Over my body
Over what happens to it
As long as I remain awake
As long as I remain alert
The trauma resides
In that small space near my nape
Where your fingers curled
That one time
Sinking into my flesh
Leaving marks for days
On the rare occasions
I let anyone close enough
To touch me there
It feels as though
My entire spine erupts
Shooting out jagged barbs of panic
Isn’t it funny how we can train our brain
To forget things
To bury things where they cannot be retrieved
But they will still linger on
In another form
Imprinted into our very bones and muscles
Sometimes I find myself thinking
How nice it will be
To finally be free of this body
Which stopped feeling like my own
Long ago
Do what you like with my body
When I am dead
I tell people
As though
They hadn’t already while I was alive
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
To some twas a majestic force,
Mysterious and beautiful,
Courageous and never full
From a vast, adventurous feast.
It roamed – a horn upon a horse,
A gallop one could never cull,
It thought itself invincible,
Yet to some it was a beast.
Its orchestra – a masterpiece
Assembled from around the Earth,
But labouring perfections birth
Was a harpist’s absent beat.
The pains of searching now could cease
As landing upon emerald berth,
The unicorn unearthed its serf
As sublimity filled that seat.
The harpist liked her homely scene,
Despite its audience so small.
She’d rather stay than leave it all
And face the unicorns stampede.
And so she suffered wrath obscene:
She was forced to attend the ball,
Waiting centuries for the call
To leave an orchestra based on greed.
In present day the harp is home,
Back to where it is meant to be,
Beauty played independently,
But the unicorn does not mourn,
For now both creatures often roam
To a ball outside of history
And play a peaceful melody:
“The Harpist and the Unicorn.”
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:34 AM UTC
Love
Such a complex concept
Am I loved?
Do I love?
What is love?
I dream of a love that consumes me
that is pure and genuine
that makes me feel appreciated
and that doesn't belittle me
I want a love that is bigger than reason
that comes naturally
that overcomes all obstacles
and that strikes like lightning
I long for a love that resembles the sun
that radiates independently of choice
that makes me want to love myself
and that doesn't come with conditions
A love that allows me to grow
be who I want to be
and doesn't bruise me
Love
Such a complex concept
Am I loved?
Do I love?
I think I know what love is
And it's not this
09/02/2012
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
She grew into the moon, becoming the women she was destined to be.
Bright, beautiful, and independently alone up in the sky.
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 7:26 AM UTC
Intellectual Insubordinates Infiltrating Independently Isolated Islands...
People Positively Promote Popping Pain Pills
Do Dummies Distinguish Different Demographic Disorders
Crazy Commanders Create Confused Combat Corps
Unorthodox Ultimatums Usually Unfold United Unions
Things That Typically Transform Taint Temperaments
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
She has a baby, the other has a honey, the last is lonely
three ladies all loving, sweet and independently hot
they all having various mediate metamorphosis
the beats of a Barry white song airing my sensors
i feel like they're all with me in this studio hut
what do i say to get away from this love prone stampede
she has a baby so only a voice like Barry White
can suite her flaring flames of Mother hood
"Believe me , I used to but I ain't a boy anymore
there's no love that can touch me anymore than
all you've given me, My baby carrying my baby..."
exhales in slow paces, how do i survive this longer
the beats of a Usher Raymond song hits me up
**** mama, you're the same girl i saw with him
oh! no i ain't jealous of your man, i'm just sure
he ain't man enough for you like i would
don't call me when he wants you no more
take this i got to go, i really have to go now
i ain't leaving you, if you're going with me
Exhales in heightened paces, i'm getting there
loneliness only brings you closer to your inner man
togetherness brings out the best in you and your man
at the corner of the crowded dance floor beauty sat alone
glaring at all the gesticulations and rigorous body movements
how lonely she looked alone in the corner rejecting all invites
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
the previous listener, who did so faintly and in a manner foreign to me, sat reasonably as I do now, or perhaps lain starry and jaded on some soft lawn riddled with the paused movements of those who watched, clouded with distraction, the life of a sweet nothing drown in descent from above as they cheered and screamed for it, for that meaningless treasure tainted by the vanity of their own desire, ignorant of the listener, of her own treasure then forming, as something warm and enduring in the seat of her chest, something to brood, to analyze, to cherish for a length, at great odds with the fleet and trivia that so dominated the struct of their noire.
but the listener had none of this, gulfed from the shaking and pressing, shielded the same from its symbol and write, opting to push for those few golden moments most certainly approaching her as the rest wraithed past, softly and shyly granting the scarcest and most shamefully starved of treelines, roadways and ballparks and wire staff, knowing but keeping that the few she would most deeply and fondly remember would be just these.
and so the listener and her lover stood past, sweeping over the artificial earths with little concern, not pausing or skipping for a moment to witness the wonder in the world around them and to soak up some indefinable fraction of its infinite offerings. from lain block to patch grass they strode, searching for their one moment, for that which so surely stood staunch and unmoving at some near point in their passage, but which always seemed to elude them, to taunt and hang and cackle in the face of their steadily growing contempt.
and then, as the crowd deserted their peaks for the safe and steady and trough, allowing those moments of elation to slip from them with ease, the listener let likewise all that was precious to her from her grasp, and fell into a similar place, one of deserted lows and recollections of the brightness that lay behind, of those very moments that felt their way independently into her heart and her soul, and left her love beside her, forever looking up into the dark.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
"I'm afraid of the dark. There's no one to guide me anymore"
"I think it's time you should be your own guardian, because in this wonderful world, my friend, no one cares. No one will ever care either. You should be independent. You must learn to survive, independently. The world is a deep sea, full of sharks. If you don't survive, you're not given a second chance. Because in the end, no one ever cares, my friend. No one cares."
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
**** you and your dear old trains,
hard seats and beat staff selling
rip-off chaff on chariots of mass
profits. The **** merchant gazes
through dead eyes and scratched
plastic as he charges up my **** with
an astronomical figure. A smile
on his bosses face as he races
into his office with more bloated
profits is all he can think of as he
sinks my high hopes into an oblivion
of rage. **** off" I tell him as he
flashes his price, 'that's twice what
I've already paid', but "mind your
language" is all he says as if that's
worse than ****** a man half your age.
He can't use his brain independently
from the movement of his masters
strings, he must watch the news
as if he's staring at his personal
kings - what a ***** All I can do now
is accept my fate of a few boring dates
with the telephone and my mates
at East Mids Trains, but that's in the
future and the **** merchant's in the
past, now I speed towards memories
I hope will far outlast that **** behind
the plastic and the ***** to whom his
thoughts are cast. Bring on
The Big Smoke.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:05 PM UTC
A yellow brick road glistens before me
A sign dubbed “Straight is the best way to go”
Even though an ominous aura flows
My inner voice screams
“Chaos will erupt if you walk further”
But my body moves independently
Down the sunny-patched pavement
The bright yellow shade grays
The unbowed path jerks far left
Away from the right destination
The map displays a straight yellow line
Heading directly to the city of great prospects
The mapped road looks as secure as the Great Wall
Running at ease without obstructions
Yet in reality
I ventured into the Desert of Disasters
The powdered sand deadening my progress
The volatile sandstorms
Stalls my venture
And conceals the route
Of the yellow brick road
Little water left
The path nowhere in sight
Only minuscule hope and perpetual effort
Can reveal the true path to salvation
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC