"insubstantiality" poems
*There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block*
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
Every breath I take reminds me I'm alive
My uniqueness survives my weakness,
my illness has given me a strength, that,
I never knew existed.
My health is deteriorating, failing,
day by day, but despite these facts,
I can say **** you MS" I'm staying
at least a while longer!
I'll never give up, or give in, without a scream, or a fight.
You have stealth, I have a wealth of love
You have insubstantiality, I have no regrets
You have pain, I have gain.
Through my pain, fatigue, depression and laments,
I've gained a friend, ME.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
A-Ooga Tioga
Sky, mountain and mist rise
with morning breath
It’s crisp until coffee goes in
but no bother for that
instead, searching for sun, kept out of sight
figuring which way is east
Which way is yonder?
still, more you might ponder
As you sink into the lap of Tioga valleys
cradled by ash and oaks
fields of daisy mixed with rye and wheat
spread at your feet
like wedding dress of Mother Nature herself
She says softly:
“Pssst, hey you
Don’t put on those shoes
tiptoe way across my seedy crinolines
lie upon me
Sink in insubstantiality with me
as I draw
rays and beams, beyond
some twenty rolling hills
In our for all future time horizon
you may still be dreaming
indulge yourself in my verdant fantasies
**** up this morning with me
This is Appalachian reverie
hear me like little turkey gobbling
dance with doe and fawn
chase jackrabbit
round and round
Why, even the silos are singing
“Pour me a cup” ”
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
The wind is my lover
and the water that pivots
beneath the sky above me
could be any color for all
the attention I'm paying it.
For in the speed that whips
me about in a circle,
this world loses meaning.
As my hair gains independence
and my skin darts behind me
in the afternoon heat
and my limbs numb utterly
to victorious speed,
all my cares and leaden ties
are brought to light
and shown their insubstantiality;
they are spat derisively
into the dusk.
For the wind is my lover
and he sates my hungers
and visits with my youth
and quiets my longing
for sense with every velvet
torrent that passes through
my open hand.
And when the boat stops, I will break apart.
Would that the wind would grasp me and pull me
aft into the blackness beyond the shore.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:34 PM UTC
If it’s recognition you want
By all means, go ahead and try
But don’t get so bogged down
That your time passes you by
If it’s a point you’re trying to prove
Give it your all until the last
But while you’re so set in your ways
Remember to let go of the past
There’s no use in holding on
To things false things all around
And there’s no point in looking
For something that can’t be found.
If it’s power you want, honey
I hope you’re going to see
That all these uncertainties
Aren’t in a boy like me
I know that you could look forever
In search of insubstantiality
But just chain down my heart
And throw away the key.
I hope then you will find
I hope then you will see
You don’t have to fight me all the way
You only have to talk to me.
So don’t curl your lip
So don’t look the other way
Avarice is only temporary
But my love is here to stay.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC
Our world, though claimed to be enthralled in hues of green,
Resides in purgatory, an abyss that is not black and white, but sterile grey.
The horizon, seemingly bleeding crimson from the wounds that skyscrapers rip into the clouds,
Fades, into nothingness brought by with the darkness of night.
Not sunrise, because sunrise is rebirth,
But sunset, because sunset is expiration.
The taste of copper that used to flood our mouths
When teeth pierce skin,
Now dulled to bitterness that lingers in the corners of our lips.
The poison that we indulge in for instant gratification catching up to us,
It’s venom spreading through our veins, until it is as much of a part of us as is our blood.
Though it is not black and white, but sterile grey.
White emanates of weightlessness, insubstantiality, peace.
It is the lightness in your heart and freedom in your soul,
As your mind numbs to a point where you are free,
Yet somehow in agony.
White is the release we long for our whole lives, the simple
Pleasure of letting go and falling,
Simply falling.
Black emits of power, depth, and regret.
It is the ash that is the remains of the fire that had once burned and scarred,
Now dowsed with the ice water that is the harsh reality.
Black is the slowness of our movements as our muscles grow stiff
And you fall.
Fall back into the ocean that is our depression,
Comfortably numb until all air would have escaped our lungs,
And the void would have consumed us entirely.
And grey, the sterile grey that paints the walls of hearts and souls,
Is the gentle balance between both. That contrast, between
Day and Night, Love and Hate,
Peace and Chaos, Black and White,
Is our eternal fate of somber nihility,
The simple quiet that keeps our hands at work and minds at bay.
And yet, we long for more.
We long for pain, pleasure, the good, and the bad,
To fulfill our lust for things beyond the thin line that segregates our youth and wisdom,
And leaves us yearning for a choice.
Because perhaps, when the contrast between black and white grows too dense to bear,
The tightrope amidst life and death becomes the only thing we have power over.
And only then, perhaps, we have a choice:
A chance to escape the world that is not black and white,
But sterile grey.
Nov 5, 2020
Nov 5, 2020 at 11:19 AM UTC