"indistinguishable" poems
The white man, can't say the word ***** They say because its offensive, it's rude, but I know the real reason why. I know, because that's what I am; a ****** Born as a ****** lived as ****** I know why the white man can't say the word ****** They say that it makes no sense for the blacks to use this insulting, disgusting term for themselves, but only because they don't know the true meaning. We bear the name as a scar, as a reminder of what we fought, of what we were. We bear the name as a reminder of our ancestors, and their long hot days in the cotton fields, picking until their finger tips were raw with blood, whipped until their skin was indistinguishable from the raw fleshy pulp that was their aggravated flesh laced with the crimson nectar of their veins. We bear the name, to remind ourselves, that even amidst all this we lived. We fought our way through the darkness of the tunnel. We bear our scar, to remind us, to remind you, that we survived, that we are survivors. I bear the name, I bear the scar of a ****** That is why we call ourselves the name ****** It is our word of honor, our mark of surviving. The white man is not worthy enough to call me a ******
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.
Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.
She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.
She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.
She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.
Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.
I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.
Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.
Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.
I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.
If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
Isn’t physically quick or agile.
Disappears in libraries.
Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books.
Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks.
Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming.
Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube.
Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
I.
And my hair became too much
It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks
By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair
II.
everything and everyone became consumed.
III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa
IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.
V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa
VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.
everything becomes consumed.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
Sunny afternoon
75 degrees
Breeze
Flowing
Blowing softly through the slightly cracked window
Trees
Swaying
Laying rhythmic undertones to lyrical chirping
Me
Smiling
Snuggled so tightly
Pressed against your skin
Entangled limbs
Indistinguishable as to where you end and I begin
Our
Hearts and Breaths
Synced
Collaborating
Producing a soothing lullaby as we drift off to...
Sleep
I miss afternoon naps
With you
In
The afterglow
after...
© Tina Thompson
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
My thoughts have turned into white noise
The kind that you find when you accidentally hit the channel button on the remote control
Covered in a static that hurts when you touch them
I don't really know what their purpose is
But I do know that the simultaneous and indistinguishable sounds
Of everything
And nothing
Are driving me insane
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
what does it feel like to be held
not by another body
not by a set of limbs, a chest, a chin
but
by another soul
what does it feel like
to see truth in another pair of eyes
instead of hidden intentions
instead of absence
what does it feel like
to hear a familiar heartbeat
resounding next to your own
reaching through skin
through bone
two rhythms
indistinguishable
what does it feel like
to write poems about
a love that exists
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
Fresh from the kennels. A whole world away.
Companion conversion for a young castaway.
A darling of distraction with irrational fears.
The clumsiest canine with ever aware ears.
Guardian of gourmet. Suspect of all sounds.
He'll catch himself someday, spinning around.
A tug of war here. A muddy mess there.
A lick to the face of the humans in his care.
How thrilled his tail and tremendous his teeth.
How dug up the planet from paw underneath.
The running for fun. The claiming of trees.
The car window ride along - face full of breeze.
--------------------------------------------------------
But now he's a master of "Stay!".
His eagle ears succumbing to gravity's sway.
Napping much more, barking much less.
Now rarer the cuddle, the clean, the caress.
Patch protector. Owner of no debts.
A veteran of various villainous vets.
Birds as trivial as the tennis ball is far.
Eyes now as hazy as the indistinguishable stars.
A howl at the moon. A loosening tooth.
An ode to memories of a modest youth.
They still love this pup. He still loves them back.
May he long be remembered as he faces the black.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
The world around me keeps
spinning on,
it is
fast
paced,
smells become
indistinguishable.
The air stands still
it tastes stale.
different colours b-l-u-r
to grey
A windowpane of
rainy
patience.
Voices
screech
painfully
noises w~h~i~r~l
to echos
not unlike sanity
fleeing to
a place inside myself.
An eye of the storm
Next destination
cool
solitary,
timelessness-
calm.
s e r e n i t y
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
if you’re laying in bed
wrapped up in sheets
of miserable thought,
go to sleep
if thumbing through old messages
only causes your heart to ache
and long for something unattainable
erase them
if it hurts to keep
everything you’re feeling
bottled up inside
let it out
if you’re clinging onto someone
that doesn’t treat you like
you’re worth the world
let them go
because sometimes
we choose to believe
that things are only
indistinguishable shades of gray
when in reality,
life is more black and white
than it seems
if you’re unhappy
with the way
you are living your life
change it
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
Best in show,
a pomeranian;
You know it.
Bet you thought that glossy fur would fade before the time to grow it.
I'm annoyed by your showy words and non sequitur phrases.
I've had it up to here with toy dogs and indistinguishable faces.
I've a proposition to make -
not one to be taken lightly -
What if we switched places tonight then held our lovers tightly?
Would we feel like strangers in their embrace,
or would we finally understand:
What it takes to calm me down,
and what it means to be your man?
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
I recently got reminded... Oh how I am caught
In a delicate web of disillusions
Make me see what is actually not
Make invisible my heart's secret questions
Been successful in putting aside all grief
But truth has it's way to make you pay
You can bury all grievances; you can mask all disbelief
But it'll all catch up; these things you've kept at bay
Make your silly compromises
To have the the best you just make allowances
Keep up your futile pretences
Accommodate your selfish preferences
Day had dawned where each question need their answer
Questions I've shrugged and left unaddressed
Indistinguishable when fact and fiction begin to blur
When dreams and reality have coalesced
Tonight I lay with the load I bring
Body asleep with my heart fully awake
Blessing or curse, this rude awakening
Decisions and choices left for the following suns to make
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Quiet crickets.
Quiet light of moon
Quiet cars along the road
--Go'n be home soon
Quiet AC on too late
Quiet humming charger in the outlet
Quiet bathroom 'cross the hall, water dripping from the faucet
Quiet floors while set'ling in
You're too old for all that whinin'
Quiet creatures awake before the sun
The signals when it's shinin'
Quiet indistinguishable shadow still yet so foreboding
Oh, you're just a pile of clothes that I never got to folding
Quiet drafty window singing with such vigor and such soul
Catch a chill from that night air
Might catch a runny nose
Quiet thoughts-that handsome stranger, worries, deadlines, dreams, 'n stuff
Quiet bedtime playlist streaming
Clearly you were'nt good enough
Quiet poem bursting from me my
Admonition of defeat
quiet quiet.
too much quiet-
quiet, would you let me sleep?
2:46am 8.30.18
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
Existential crisis
Fundamental flaws
Insurmountable dilemma
Confabulations galore
Indistinguishable chaos
Contraindications
Untenable maladies
Nature’s riled
Abject behavior
Peripheral existence
Satire of reality
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
Love:
Affection, Admiration, Lust, Adoration...
There are at least 65 different definitions of the word.
Feelings that inspire books of poetry or expressions of love unheard.
How is it measured?
Perhaps with a caliper
to measure its depth and breadth.
Or with a sound meter
To measure the volume and decibel or the whispering of a breath.
Could you measure it in pints or cups or ounces in a measuring cup?
"My cup runneth over"
Can it be measured with a thermometer?
"I'm burning up."
How heavy is true love - can it be weighed on the scales?
Can you measure love with a compass - to what degree does love prevail?
Can a speedometer track the speed by which one falls in love?
Or an odometer measure the distance at which love can still be felt?
Can you use a syringe to limit your doses of love before it's lethal?
Can you attach a heart monitor and check how a lover's heart beats faster
or the health of their love - strong or weak?
Can the rhythm & harmony be counted out on a metronome
Can a polygraph test prove it is true?
Can the magnitude of love be measured using a microscope, binoculars or a telescope - maybe Hubble. How does one know how to bring it into "focus"?
How mysterious that love is so indistinguishable, so immeasurable, so evasive & yet SO BIG!
Yet no one - except for God - knows the true measure of Love & its ability to heal, to hurt.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
*Inspired by As I Walked Out One Evening by W.H. Auden
As I walked out one evening under the blanket of dark blue sky
Thinking about the week to come
Will the days be remembered, or rather wasted and forgotten?
Each tired child thinks the same thought.
Sunday nights slip into Monday mornings
Mondays slowly become Tuesdays;
Yet somehow the days become one
Each tired child unable to differentiate each day from the last
Wake up, brush teeth, brush hair, repeat.
Math, English, read, write, factor, and repeat.
Return home, work, eat, sleep and then repeat.
Each tired child thinks, “Is this really living?”
Stuck in a labyrinth of concrete
Routine forces every move
Taunted by the warm blanket left behind, only to leave a blanket of papers
Each tired child stares at the ticking clock.
Thoughts interrupted by bells at the same time
Routine consumes every thought
Each indistinguishable day
Where each child struggles to lift heavy eyelids.
Same faces seen every day
Same places seen every day
Weeks blur into months, which in turn disappear in the minds
Each tired child fights every robotic move.
Closing doors and opening books
The teachers scream and roll their eyes
Where thoughts aren’t thoughts unless they are in Times New Roman
Each tired child strives to be heard.
As I walked out one evening under the blanket of dark blue sky
Thinking about the years to come
Routine is inescapable while spontaneity is a distant myth dreamt up in the minds
Of each tired adult who forgets what it’s like to be a child.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Everything. Nothing.
Indistinguishable now.
Unbearable too.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 11:20 PM UTC
It’s not about the hand you were dealt with,
It’s about how you play the hand you were dealt with.
But
Imagine that the hand you were given
attached to fingers
with blistered pads and splintered prints
that wound in swirls of blood soaked skin.
Imagine, that the nails of each finger
crucified you to stars
willing you to brighten the night
for children who fear the dark
regardless of your burns.
Imagine, that your palms
were crumpled pieces of paper
stuffed into the back of a trash bin
on fire,
the burning smell of garbage and secrets
indistinguishable from one another.
See
Some people,
they are given hands lined with rings;
diamonds, silvers, and golds
not a single callous and well-manicured.
Some people,
they are given boneless pieces of plastic
that fail to do so much
as curl and unfurl themselves:
hands that are growing desperate to feel
the things they touch.
Some people,
they are given scabbed knuckles
that shake so bad
they can only find comfort
in scratching themselves henna tattooed scars;
digging six feet into their skin,
creating burial sites out of their own bodies.
Tell them anyway,
It’s about how you play the hand you were dealt with.
It may never make a winner out of them
But it will keep them from leaving the game entirely.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
With no expectation all's novelty
The new patterns don't astound us
We can stay in the middle of the river with our heads above the water
And safely watch the coastline pass us by
The outside world an ocean of television static
The signals painting pictures of entropic holograms
That interlock and correlate
Until the ghosts of time are churning out
Like geese into a a tiny hole
In an orange plastic fence
Fleeing mischievous youngsters
Who love to watch them funneled in
Like grains of sand in an hourglass.
We too live in an hourglass
And the grains of sand empty out the bottom
Floating aimlessly through an unending void
And the ultimate improbability
Goes through the formality of actually occurring
When the grain of sand finds itself at the beginning
Passing once again through the hourglass
Undivided, indistinguishable
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
I want to kiss you so fiercely that I finally understand the depth at which I fall and the height at which you rise. I will meet you again, even still —in the center of it all ("Like a ring."); the two of us caught in a tangled mass of scarlet cord, wound and knotted so tightly around us that I almost feel indistinguishable from you. ("Two bodies, two lives, one soul.") I can feel all that red humming and chanting beneath my ribcage like a war song, running through my veins to deliver to my heart a desperate echo of longing.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
It’s been a long day
I’m sitting in the recovery room, waiting for a late evening case to start
The PACU nurses tend to two patients at opposing sides of the room
Familiar cacophony of sounds – monitors softly speaking, informing the staff about their charges
Heartbeat, pulse oximeter timbre, quiet respiratory alarm
It’s my 7th case, I’m starting to fade
The sounds are relaxing, soothing.
All is well
Suddenly I hear the disconjugate beeps of the two heart monitors
Draw together, until
For just a few precious seconds
These two total strangers
Completely unaware of one another
Share a pulse – their hearts beating in perfect sync – the two sounds indistinguishable
A beautifully symmetrical moment, almost lost
In the next second, as if it hadn’t happened, their hearts diverge - once more strangers
one to one another
unaware of an incredibly intimate moment shared
Sitting there, waiting for the case
I imagine
An instant in the course of history
Where, for one fleeting breath,
Humanity’s rhythm converged
Billions of hearts in time, a nerve impulse propagated across the planet
before scattering to the winds
A potent event, possibly one of many that even
In our modern world, still remains in the mystical
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
I have yet to manifest all I am,
Like the prolonged discovery
Of a well known secret.
Here's a free grand tour
Around here special guest,
I would very much like it
If you stuck to my side
Like a sidekick.
I, the heroic tour guide
Of so many surreal wonders,
And darling oh my--
The setting sun sat beside
Two bottomless candles whistling.
Before you knew it,
Their identities were indistinguishable,
In their fervid resplendence.
Frank motives are held back,
Control is so fallibly crass.
What would happen if the
Suppressor were to collapse?
We would expand,
Like we toiled for.
Originally written 2/27/11
Revised 10/19/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC