Instillation poems on Hello Poetry

Daniel Wetter May 2014

Choices

This spoken word...
Is chosen words...
As soon as i speak up,
those choices heard.
But if i were to meek up,
those choices blur.
Frozen by the fear of an unknown turf.
What does it mean?
Does mean that I'm scared?
Or that i don’t care?
Or that education and support are not there?
Never meant to be demean,
and cause a bogus affair.
But what isn't bogus,
when you look in the mirror?
Too old not to know this
Too young not to care
No knowledge on topics,
but I’ll comment with flair.
If I say the wrong thing,
in just the right light.
Maybe the others,
just wont push and fight.
We turn the other cheek,
as we call it polite.
We wait,
and we hope,
while we cope with our life.
Every one of us does it,
we feel love and we fight.
We all make mistakes,
but take ours as alright.
And theirs is so bad?
The care that we have,
wouldn’t dare to see past,
the color of skin.
Orientation,
is less of a statement,
it’s love and thats basic,
don’t hate with no basis.
You're not born with the hate,
its a great instillation.
Don’t act like its fake,
or go about face it.
You can’t just erase the past or say you've misplaced it.
Accept.
Don’t reject.
Show respect, and embrace it.
Lets go create,
and love with persuasion.
I just cant wait, for
a hate free oasis.
Too much is at stake,
for us to stay blameless.
Enough of the shame,
trust we’re destined for greatness.

#love #poem #poetry #sad #life #heart #girl #depressed #happy #society

K Balachandran Feb 2015

The discordant marital entertainment Inc

For both partners, in a protracted dance, out of step, for long time,
it was creativity, at the best in the destructive mode,they are well versed,
like in a music record, cacophonous,their marital discord did manifest,
was made to look,an art form, instillation like, with many possibilities.

Destructive art expresses itself in relationship issues, stupefying the onlookers!

#creativity #destructive #marital-discord

Derrek Estrella Oct 2018

Iron and Purpose (88 mm)

In the wake of innocence, I am left gaping with stupor at the threshold of pragmatism. I am fascinated by a hallway rather than its occupants. Its geometry tells me different facets of flying stories, while my human congeners remain hollow.
I am planning out my period of visibility and retaining prudence with my pondering of obsolescence. The inflection of my youth is becoming more contrived and unsatisfactory. I am continually outracing it.
I wish to fight for the Fatherland. Death is not my loss, that is becoming excruciatingly clear. I dream of marching in the air of sociopathic freedom. My brain longs for an ashen visage and valiant, black boots.
Oh, I long for iron and purpose. I crave the sight of a united race, an insurmountable stature. I want to touch Caesar. Only the dead sympathize with me, for they know what it is like to be cruel and subsequently, obsolete.
I do not want to ****. I want to fight and be a tool. An instillation of might. I want to be within a collective heel.

#prose

Pockets Aug 2020

The mind as a house

There’s mold in the attic
Next to the instillation and between the ears
so many people wanna condemn this place
Yet they have never lived here
They didn’t see it when it was new and beautiful
Before the outside world formed cracks in its foundation
Before years of storms leaked in and rotted memories
All the world sees is foreclosed eyes
That’s why they are so blind
Always trying to tear us down
Instead of building us back up
Then they wonder why we put locks on are doors
And plywood over the windows
They only wanna see something new
Even if its not there own
Some people houses look just like mine
Some peoples minds are abandoned homes

#home #abandoned #window #lock #door #mold

Rachel Jordan Jan 2014

Untitled

All roads lead to the hospital…
To the room of your own conception,

Where you were pulled into the world by
unknown hands.

You claim it is your artistic style that makes us.
That positions the words on this page,
You say mine is too broken

Up.

All roads meet in your bedroom,
With abandoned bottles and shoes, the smell of old coffee filters,

You claim you are at odds with your creator,
With your creation.

And I am the muse who later came to **** you.

I am the voice you sought for reason

But silenced like a sedative.

All roads split at the old school building with memories
And hung up black and white photos with no pattern or placement with the false claim of being an instillation.

You are forever in those photos, in my mind, finger printed by your existence.

I was sleeping on the floor, where you consummated your first relationship, and I wondered how these moments all get intertwined.

Me, your first real love, laying on top of your first time, with someone you used for a warm body to fill the void
That you created
For yourself.
All roads end with an unclean floor.

Rachel Jordan Feb 2014

All Roads

All roads lead to the hospital…
To the room of your own conception,

Where you were pulled into the world by
unknown hands.

You claim it is your artistic style that makes us.
That positions the words on this page,
You say mine is too broken

Up.

All roads meet in your bedroom,
With abandoned bottles and shoes, the smell of old coffee filters,

You claim you are at odds with your creator,
With your creation.

And I am the muse who later came to **** you.

I am the voice you sought for reason

But silenced like a sedative.

All roads split at the old school building with memories
And hung up black and white photos with no pattern or placement with the false claim of being an instillation.

You are forever in those photos, in my mind, finger printed by your existence.

I was sleeping on the floor, where you consummated your first relationship, and I wondered how these moments all get intertwined.

Me, your first real love, laying on top of your first time, with someone you used for a warm body to fill the void
That you created
For yourself.
All roads end with an unclean floor.

Ryan O'Leary Dec 2021

Pick-Up Sticks

Pick-Up Sticks

#

There’s a solitary nest on
the skeletal tree, that of a
Corvidae, well built,
withstood the hurricane.

Twigs from last years windfalls,
it is natures lesson in recycling.

The original name is Mikado,
though the game has been
perfected to an instillation art
form by the Genus Corvus.

kenye May 2020

Monster of the Weak Rogue Gallery

If all the world’s a stage
then anxiety is a crisis actor

The trickster archetype
typecasting all my critical thoughts as truths

Into a monster of the weak
rogue gallery
of self-destructive episodes

Maybe it’s the lack of SSRI’s
but SI be like:

Since they slashed and burned
half the forest preserve
maybe you should slit your wrists
and self-immolate in the center of it;

Maybe you should spill
your guts like seppuku
at the center of Daley Plaza
underneath The Picasso
outside that Shepard Fairey exhibit
(Provocateurs; Block 37)
Call it an art instillation

If all else fails, I’ll just throw myself in front of a Tesla on the North Shore

#suicide

— The End —