"inhibiting" poems
**** you
for being the only thing
that hurts me enough to write about
for not being a part of my heart anymore
but loitering in my brain
inhibiting anything else I try and create,
**** you
I want to write about anything else
but I have not felt that much since
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
No option, but to be perceived
Violent, Aggressive, Irrational
Identity becoming an other
Words of malice, they mystify
Words of ignorance, they vilify
Subverting consciousness and articulation
Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation
No real notion of we or me
Implicating it's inhuman to be foreign
When they represent as much of we and me
Scandalizing alternative identities as subversive
Advancing erasures in favor of hegemony
Propaganda favoring what is most white
Amelioration for the obliteration of cunning identity?
No more cooperation, ****** the euphemisms
That cover up, and help justify marginalization
Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation
Time to **** ****** massacre eurocentric ideology
We preach no violence, being not them, just we
But cannot request to be free, must tear it out by force
Eurocentric ideological pandemic inhabiting, inhibiting the soul of mankind
Unthinkable abomination concealed in the veil of appropriated minds
Necessitating exorcism for the incarcerated conscious mind
When we completely violate mandates of eurocentric ideology
When only we appropriate our own identity
When we all nullify the color of our skin
As profanity or inadequacy
Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation
Will be awaiting purgation from alienation
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
Rainy nights thinking about Rwanda,
fog seeps out of the woods.
Like smoke, it crawls across the fields.
My head lights attempt to cut through it,
as it intensifies, inhibiting my drive,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I arrive at the Mobil,
wait five minutes for the cashier to notice I’m here.
When she does, she hobbles over.
I attempt to buy a pack of backwoods,
my card gets declined,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I get in my car,
and have a fit when I can’t find my keys,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I begin to drive,
get cut off and curse fellow man,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I ***** and I moan,
an entitled little ****
but I’m alive,
which many can’t say after Rwanda.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC
H arrowing abundance rife with result
O ur minds narrowly try to cope
U nder pressure facades and near **** haute
R estricts the leisure of bare beauty
G rowing impatient by the cover of makeup
L oving imperfection is now a rare duty
A ttributes of wear benign hope and
S ecede scars born of cataclysm while
S carcely inhibiting a chance to forgive them
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
When I was younger,
as our lips met
I was so eager
to free you
from your fabric bonds
I was in such a hurry
to liberate you
from the oppressive clothing
that was strangling your body
inhibiting your beauty
hiding the soft curves of your skin
I treated our time together
like a small child would treat a Christmas gift,
Greedily tearing away at the wrapping paper
to retrieve the object of his desire.
Unaware that anticipation can be just as rewarding
as the reward itself
My priorities have shifted
I've learned
Let me just lay next to you
admire you as you bite your lip
enticing a kiss.
Just a small one
Let me run my hand down your arm
as my fingers find yours and
i n t e r t w i n e
Let me watch as your eyes follow mine
into the place where no words
need be spoken
I want to listen to your heartbeat
There's no need to rush this.
I want to get lost with you in this moment
Just for a bit
Before we're lost in the passion of the night
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
The spear leaves the bow
Sizzling sharp sound
Of the echo of words
Hollowed by clichés
Piercing my heart to deflate
The hope evaporates
Numbing my senses and
Inhibiting my muscles to
Turn away from the next spear
No wonder I wear
A shield
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 5:53 AM UTC
i detached my mind's roots from what had grown along the inside of my skull
like a patch of celadon poison growing up the walls of a brick house
inhibiting other plant life
i wrapped the vines around my hand and up to my elbow into a perfect wreath
thorny and dry
my fingers bled
less conscious than usual
all I could think was
this was easier than I'd expected
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
it must be in my composition
composing lines of opposition
opposing the forces of inhibition
inhibiting me, and my mission
maybe the reason for my creation
creating lines of aspiration
aspiring to give my own translation
translating thoughts into formulation
=========thesis of completion============
i was made from the pavement of places
where faces are vacant of any translation
i interlace traces of those wasted cases
as a way of portraying their lost salvation
i speak from the streets of broken pieces
where the weak sleep in the heat of depletion
i seek to find some peace in my thesis
where these creatures reek of completion
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
“Was thy loved ones’ existence still present
when she hassled an ***** position
to fulfil her responsibilities?
Where she endured multitudinous battles,
inhibiting every single darted tear
dying to transpire.
Her frame of mind wavering as she
suppressed her deadly psychosis,
stirring the emotions of her loved ones.
Unenlightened was thou
that as she rooted in their presence,
she nonchalantly decays within.
Her vehemence veiled into resisting mankind
fishing upon her burdens.
Insofar she is overpowered
by the mere evidence that she
cannot silence her sorrows."
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 6:37 AM UTC
Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,
a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…
I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…
cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee
history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****
We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.
{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}
Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks
off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,
ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.
There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed
with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…
wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?
What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.
We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:
The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.
From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74_kAhU_HjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>
and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.
From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
A curling green tendril climbs from its’ birthing nest of rotting bird ****
The creeper wends its’ way up round and around the stalk of its’ slender tree host. Leading vigorously ever upward, it climbs toward the light of day. Upon bursting through to the sunshine, it explodes into a huge and suffocating dominance. Wrapping its’ leaders tightly together, writhing skyward, smothering all else. Blotting out the sun. Inhibiting its’ host tree, ultimately killing it ...and every other living plant located below it.
In late summer the creeper produces bunched, masses of frothy, green, seeded florets. Clouds of green plumed waxeyes flock en mass, to flutter, competing ravenously to feast on the banks of seed heads.
Once replete, with full crops, the tiny birds fly off to distant shaded woods there to indiscriminately drop their **** unknowingly further spreading the insidious creeper pestilence.
I trudge through my wooded glades,
Indignantly I sever taproot after taproot with my trusty sharp blade
….and watch that creeper limply sag and die
With a glint of satisfaction in my grim and vengeful eye.
M.
6 February 2016
Foxglove farm, Taranaki, NZ
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.
The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…
But mine isn’t.
My heart is fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood, and every attack has left a new finger broken, each inhibiting my ability to perform at my best, but when the soreness bids farewell, so does my weakness. People like to tell me that I am strong. I am strong because my heart is always clenched and ready for the next fight. Even those who manage to open the hand will eventually be crushed by my grip. I don’t have any issues with this. As far as I’m concerned, no one will get a chance to start breaking knuckles for quite some time. Maybe by the time I’m risk-ready, I’ll relax just enough for someone to fit their fingers through my heart-spaces.
Until then, I’ll keep chipping away at the pieces of blood.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon
I raise my own tattered wings to the sky
cursing the inadequacies,
throwing away all doubts,
shedding my second skin of half-truths
thrown into my head
by words so keen on my own destruction.
by time that had stopped for three hundred days.
by a pen that seemed never ending,
inhibiting the thoughts within my head.
with a new smile in my eyes
I take a newfound strength in my arms,
lift up my wings
and bring myself into a new flight.
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 12:49 PM UTC
Both hands in her pockets
She stared toward her feet
As she walked away from the bus
Her dark hair
Parting in the breeze
As if to gesture to me
To breathe
Before hooking me
Delicately
In temptations
Tethering
As i tailed with inexplicable ease
It was all beyond me now
And with the park
Coming up on the left
I closed our distance
In a frantic persistence
Limited
Only by blind vigilance
Inhibiting
All else from
Existing
Her shadow
Emanating
Upon mine
Dimming
The light
Between us
Her scent intoxicating
Causing my blood to thin
My strength to diminish
So i sprinted in
And grabbed her throat
With one hand
Jerking her back
To my chest
The black
Pulling from her chest
As i stepped
Into our place
In time
And with a Pinch where
Thumb meets finger
I recite the loss to the letter
As i whisper her name into her ear
Pulling her nearer
To the darkness of the park
I punctured her heart
As she disgustedly starts
Struggling
Pumping
Her legs
Apart
Inside she begs
Attempting to pry
My hand away
As if to say
Don't stop
In lustful froth
I had found
The one
And none
Could stop
The sound
Of her silent shuttering
As i eased her to the ground
She weakened
Falling softly
Into love with me
Sinking into me
Serenading me
In weakening
Dreams
Drifting
From her being
And into me
My one moment
Of ecstasy
Was her infinite
But the park
Will always see
Will always taste
The iron soil
We have made
Beautifully
She stared blankly
Back at me
In the blackening
Of the light
Then the shakes began
And she lost all her fight
Loosening my hand
In the captured sight
Of first contact
As i gently laid her
On her back
Resting my lips
Upon her eyelids
I released my grip
To the fluttering
Upon my
Lips and
Kissed
Her
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
Walking past the playground at the park
in the center of my grown up city
I hear children, but do not look at them,
their parents’ eyes seem to glare at me.
As I carry on, earbuds infecting my head
their vibrant laughter derides my shady afternoons indoors,
the things my mother said.
Once I wanted to drink grape Kool-Aid, but my mother wasn’t home
and even though she’d told me not to, I decided to make myself some.
I climbed up in the cupboard and took the faded pitcher
then I took the translucent canister below, in which my mother stored her sugar.
I mixed the sugar and synthetic flavor with a knife
a cloud of purple powder rising up.
Despite the fragrant odor, I couldn't be sure I’d added enough.
After the ingredients dissolved, I was ready to drink.
I took a big boy, breakable glass cup from the counter and washed it in the sink.
I dried the cup and set it there, beside the pitcher on the table
But when I raised the pitcher up to pour juice in the glass,
my little arms were just too feeble.
The pitcher slipped, as I lost grip and everything got wet.
As I took white cloths to sop up what I'd done,
the Kool-Aid fell in torrid sheets from the table's edge into my mouth
as warm Summer rain did years later, inhibiting a game I didn't want to play.
The water falling was relaxing and sweet for me both times.
Each accident was my momental, purple rain delay.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 6:32 PM UTC
The perimeter was limiting,
the interior more inhibiting
and the Islander lived alone,ambitions dissipated,sun dried,dessicated,he waited for the ship to come,
he lived on coconuts and *** and Wrigleys spearmint chewing gum and two tonne of cargo from the hull of the ship that nearly pulled him to his death.
He was blinded by the sun and sand,so carried lightly in one hand a parasol (made in Taiwan)
not one known to complain,he found it hard to explain to his companion,
a turtle he'd named Marion,in honour of his life and his poor departed wife
just how he felt,
but he knelt before the sea creature,which, though he didn't know it then
would feature in a hot cooked stew somewhere in the distant future.
Sad to tell that the Islander spent eighteen years on his Island hell and went quite insane
thought the sand was rain and bathed in it twice weekly
leaking fluids from his skull he swam out to the rotting hull and danced a jig on the ancient deck,
both man and wreck sank deep below where only sharks and shellfish go and the sea ****** both to their sad demise.
No stone marks the resting place,no words remark on who lies there,but the Island stares out to the sea and knows the turtle was eaten for tea
and Islands never forget.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Can I befriend you hope?
When my world is shattered
And my prayers is not much saving
When pessimism is the only way
Though I confide in the ways of God
Can I befriend you hope?
When Nanny got me saying
You harvest what you planted
I'm thinking the plantation of happiness
I should have landed
Can I befriend you hope?
When all my thoughts assembled in one
One of giving up the rest of the sum
Coming up with a soothing serum
Looking at the mirror like a reckless ***
Can I befriend you hope?
Just in case my faith elope
Pulling inside like a jump rope
Inhibiting a familiar feeling
Or when I need something to hold on to.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
I am self-deprecating. always discouraging myself.
The words "not enough" etched into my skin.
A minute too late from saving myself.
Doubt routinely prys words from my mouth.
I am a thread in my own sweater.
Inhibiting my adrenaline constantly.
I dwindle due to my own forgetfulness to water my flowers.
I wither in the company of compliments.
I wish I wasn't. I wish I were the type to step into a room instead of slink into it and hover the edges making minimal conversation.
My thoughts are loud, but muted. A tv turned to static.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
I look in your heart
For the first, to the last
Before I try to glance
Through the door of your
Soul.
I try to collect the crystals
From your deepest corners
You have so many beautiful
Flowers, in your soul garden
You, so afraid to water these
Inhibiting them to fully grow
And bloom with their full divinity.
I collect all the fallen petals
Of your roses and oriental lilies.
Sending them into the air.
So the fragrance can mingle
Do you see your soul crystals
When made shine with full doses.
Feeling fragrance of your soul roses
Do you see your garden?
Of your beautiful heart
The rare present given to you.
The work of many painful years
The crop you harvest in the heart
And soak it with quiet tears.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
I go back to that precious place on the lake
The hill overlooking the world
A tranquil perspective
Where peace of mind can be secured
But we cannot sit here forever
No matter how hard we try
We always have to descend back down
To a world full of angst
A world congested with immoral moral compasses
But even just a few hours spent
With a view such as this, I wonder....
That maybe.....
Just maybe...........
We are closer to heaven than we recognize
With the sun setting behind the rolling hill
And silhouettes lengthening behind us
Looking into the ideal
At the mouth of this cave
We unearth what is real…
Subjects still imprisoned by their own ignorance
With the glimmering warmth of a fictitious blaze
From the deceptive flames of a fabricated fire
Faintly whispering up against their backs
The puppeteers' handiwork betrays them
Splattering superficial illusions
Along a dull ill-defined canvas
Becoming aware of their elusive scheme
We broke from the inhibiting chains
Liberating our confiscated minds
We deplored the fraudulent portrayals on the wall
Abandoning these projected shadows
We emerged from this somber fallacy
Bringing to light
A consequential validity....
Mind over matter,
A beautiful reality
A breathtaking ideal
Scatter the truth and let it unfurl
Climb towards the sun
On top of the hill overlooking the world
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
we're still only expanding
on the scenario of
encountering internet chat rooms,
social media is just
a complication of chat rooms,
i.e. you have to show yourself
and relate to people
inhibiting the same kind of voyeurism
you wish to state by
an exhibitionism, although fully
attired, and completely stealth,
and all the many conceivable paradoxes
creating an intelligence of some sort...
but social media is still an advanced
version of hot-mail chat-rooms,
while modern novelists are too
attached to flimsy paper encodings
rather than attached to the pixels of pages
that want change but by wanting change
simply yawn.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the arts.
Caramel coffee is for trolls,
calamities are uninvested conversations.
Your selective ignorance
are their political polls;
cocoa conundrums; coagulating
serotonin serums inhibiting innovations.
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the love;
you turtle dove.
Historical happy hours,
rhetorical- the ring on her finger
indigo indiscretions linger
bloom a bouquet of flowers.
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the respect.
Ignore Tesla, the moon;
******* by his diamonds,
instant gratifications- new world addictions.
Hats off at my table!
Shake hands, shake social frictions.
I pump my brakes again, and
I've lost invitations;
my blinded observations.
Soulless shoes sully love,
subtle self proclamations.
Societies vicarious vices,
subliminal author's themes;
my presumption suffices.
Johnny's mother screams!
I've got the shakes again, and
I've lost my mind again;
dubious is an art of repetition.
In this war of attrition,
monkey business is the real oppression;
***** color schemes
deter my nightlife's daydreams.
Premeditations- self induced depression.
First amend, then reprieve
a society in genocide,
murderous screaming thieves.
I've got the shakes again, and
he's lost his midnight train of thought;
his ****** obsessions.
Espresso and ****** expressions,
prerogatives- propaganda bought;
the bad vibrations.
Battling a vertigo,
temptation i fought.
Dancing amongst the constellations;
these must be his
coffee drunken genius inspirations.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
**** to the bone
inhibiting you is the “gospel”
you’ve only ever known & it’s been
preached down your pureness
now the moon is bleaker than ever
scars decorating your chest
& sin’s throned your shadow
how come your eyes are even turning blacker?
you’re distorted like the sheep they’ve lead
and the confession you attempt to shed
oh, how loaded and heavy
it trips over your vocal chords
*“pray for me,
for you possess the sincerity to heaven’s doors”*
entrust & I shall vow to you my open skull -
your bucket of absolution
which you'll feed on ..
the path of truth
till its final morsel — the void & bones
of a hunger-fed wolf
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
She takes her time tracing the lines of my body, but she doesn't need much, I soon feel the electricity of her touch,sending shocks of passion through parts of me I was unaware of before she introduced me to this new way of loving and being loved.
I watch her relish every moment, as she drives me to the edge of insanity, and I relax, allowing her to take me there, to a place where I'm unaware of anything else's existence, no matter where we are or who is around, I am simply lost in her.
It is a place I've never been able to reach before, one outside of myself, outside of my insecurities and constantly inhibiting thoughts.
A temporal paradox where minutes feel like hours that somehow pass so quickly. There is never enough time to feel like I've had enough of her.
I will never have enough.
Yet as I watch her I grow impatient, waiting for my chance to return the favor, to throw her down and make her forget, everything she's learned about passion before becoming aware of my existence.
I find my juncture and seize it flawlessly, before she notices what is happening, it is already done, her body succumbing to my every whim, allowing me to take the wheel.
Leading her slowly down the path of excruciating pleasure, reading her body like a map, her sighs the soundtrack to my road trip through the marvel that is her body.
I take in every sight, each it's own wonder of my world, and take the time to figure out what unlocks its secrets. And I find them, within the deepest parts of her. Trembling beneath the surface waiting to be seen and heard.
We go back and forth incessantly, in this confined space that we utilize every inch of without ever missing a beat.
The rhythm of our bodies inherently synchronized, intoxicated on the taste and scent of each other, we move seamlessly with the other, in the most elaborate dance, until we feel the satisfaction of our chemical reaction and witness the explosion.
Basking in the glow of the embers, we unwind and attempt to breathe only to realize we've exhausted the supply of oxygen in this utopia we've built in our own stolen corner of the world.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC