"intensive" poems
I couldn’t be around you without feeling
as if my world was crashing down.
Twice I walked away but you kept
holding onto me.
Your love dominating,
controlling, and reckless.
For us both ‘WE’ became an addiction.
Our physical connection creating a real
emotional entanglement.
The intimacy escalated not with your love
and respect rather with your insatiable ******
desires and deceit.
You came closer to me than anyone ever had.
To say that we were totally engaged,
consumed with each other would gravely understate
what you did not only to my body, but also to my soul.
It was a crazy love.
When your presence met mine.
I’d forgotten the meaning of peace of mind.
Self-respect had flown away,
integrity fallen by the wayside.
I didn’t know who I was with you.
I didn’t know who I was without you.
Yet, I couldn’t leave…
Even though deep in my unconscious
I knew 'WE' were wrong.
My addiction wouldn’t let me go,
your addiction wouldn't let me go.
And I stayed…
Your behavior came so close to crushing my spirit,
my will to live.
In your compulsion to protect your deception
you abandoned me,
my life hanging on by a thread, I could not sleep or eat,
I could not breathe.
It was like being in a coma that I was fighting to survive.
With intensive professional help
I was forced out of the coma.
I survived.
Now I see
I stayed, not because I loved you
I stayed because I didn’t love me.
Passion kept me bound.
Truth be told, to be totally honest
I stayed out of fear, fear of missing the passion.
But now I know I’d rather be alone… than
shackled by the anguish and drama you swore was love.
As the synapses of my brain reconnect,
the evidence of controlling emotional abuse,
of possessive manipulation, overwhelms my mind and body.
I see now I wasn’t built, wasn’t ready to understand
your type of love.
I can’t deal, can’t bear, don’t deserve,
your emotional betrayal and abuse.
I have kept your secret for you to tell.
A secret I will never betray.
Now no longer together
locked in by your silence,
perpetuating the manipulation,
forever destined in your secret,
your abuse continues.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Rushing ecstasy
Intensive flow
Rising high
Crashing low
Raging apathy
Falling apart
Chaotic outbreak
Back to the start
©
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
This woman I know
quite the old hippie
gave me this lovely gift
A softened silk and denim dress
Folded loosely
just handed to me, unwrapped
(We felt the same about the waste of paper)
“This is for you.”
Opening it, I saw its gentle gathers from the shoulders
almost elegant, its drape
and the rough
but soft and dark of it
Real indigo dye
with silk laces from bust to waist
...then the tiny stitching...
NO!
Not by machine!
Knew the labor was – intensive
Every edge
was finished, sewn
by her caring hand!
"Oh, lady of my dream
whom I do not know
I THANK YOU!
From my soul"
I would have made this in another life –
time
of hope and longing
And then I saw that seam!
along the side
that wasn't... really...
just those thicker threads
a silk macrame
of knotted net
so – bold
to hold that one inch open
to hint at nothing –
and everything –
in between
“Oh hell! Oh ****
Does it come with an occasion??!!”
She smiled
somewhere between shy and sly
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
When the emergency room
is at maximum occupancy,
the nurses will lay down
their clipboards and utensils,
clear their throats, and ask for
women and children
to approach the desk first.
To ensure proper care,
forms still must be completed promptly,
and as patiently as possible for the
patient to be processed.
There's the occasional backwards R.
But all is acceptable with a
signature by the X.
Adrenaline coursing
through veins may perhaps lead
the cause of instability,
some instances coarse skin.
A child with the heart of a lion,
shell of a turtle, will always overcome;
rest assured, an insured child,
prints their name with the
unmistakable yet
innocent backwards R still
knows that words are as powerful
as excruciating pain.
Sticks and stones and words alone
have been known to break through bone.
With the twitch of a finger
even Danny Torrance made
the word "Redrum" seem
like a word to reflect on,
if not only a feeling
of constant déjà vu.
Intensive care is a surgeon
not leaving a wristwatch
inside of a patient,
if not a cadaver
whose time ran out.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
SPREADEAGLED
Bucharest,
*
Spread-eagled and naked
in her crop circle -
this one in a sunflower field:
she’s a wheel of limbs,
some sort of a ********
lusted after by the seed heavy
flowers bowing to her curves
like drooling surgeons.
*
She’s finished with running,
waiting for the fading light
to join the last of her loves,
faded with processed proclamations
of undying certainty
which were a little worse for wear
after courting
and checked into intensive care
soon after.
*
Love thought it had
ducked its obligations,
passed again
like a heavy goods train in the night,
shunted across the border
while guards waved it on;
interested only in sleep or beer.
*
But this time she’s making sure
love returns,
pays its duty and dues
and hits its target.
*
So, splayed
aryan and vigorous,
apeing a pagan
resurrection,
she waits
for the skydiver
who – with precision
confidence – happens
to be bearing down
on her charity target,
slowly filling her
with his ***** shadow.
*
She sunbathes under mirrors,
she’s a real
tough nut to crack.
I repeat myself into her.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
I have a dream! I have a dream,
To the racial discriminators, said Martin Luther King,
I have a dream! I have a dream!
To the evil-creating economists, I warn and ring.
Globe witness hunger, inequality poverty and unemployment
The world turns out to be bitter,
To all of you, I write this letter.
To create a world relieved from these and turn better.
I am a mad aspiring economist, a fool,
Searching for the right tool,
You turned the world with full of mess,
People are left with nothing less.
To the world, you gave theories,
Pushed us into a vicious cycle of injuries,
About your theories, you boasted,
It has created a few ruling and bloated.
Most of you worked as economic hitmen,
Turned victim laymen to fighting gunmen.
To the realities, your theory is distant,
Served no solution to the dying peasants,
To the few, we remain a psychological slave and servants,
Tuned our lives to a depended migrant.
With your development lecture,
You have killed the entire nature,
In the name of ventures, corporates turned vulture,
Hunted and looted our generations’ future.
We lived a self-reliant community,
You killed us with imposed liability,
Our lives are now placed in intensive casualty,
The word that remains imagination still is equality.
We lost our humanity and identity,
In your eyes, we are just a market and commodity,
Your play with scarcity, was a mere futility,
We finally became a society, filled with atrocity.
Your useless lectures of development,
Put us under frightening & irrecoverable unemployment,
For a few, you got us into a deep-rooted enslavement,
So, now for you instead, we make a replacement.
To my questions, you neglected and ran,
In your eyes, I am foolish stupid common man,
To you short-sighted range,
I say I will bring in a change!
Today, I may remain lower and mere viewer,
A day will come, where you will stand to answer,
Writing a new rule, I would seize your beloved positions,
This will be my lifetime mission and ambition.
I say with all my limited experience,
I will put a test to all your conscience,
Are you just a fat-big corporate’s hand?
With people will you always stand?
I am not an economist,
I am neither an egotist,
I proclaim! I proclaim!
I am a revolutionary economist,
I know you will fit me a label,
I am sure I will be an economic rebel,
A rebellious economist.
I dream a world without huge inequalities,
I dream a world free from imposed liabilities,
I dream a world without poverty and disparities,
I finally dream for becoming an economist with no ambiguities.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit . He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete , bi-polar disorder and Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
The sterile smell that covers my hands like a snug glove became so familiar. The trip to the intensive care unit at the same **** hospital became repetitive, it was like waking up in the morning and going to school....it became a traditional trip.
each trip was followed with the sorrow, followed a darkness...the coldness and darkness that stretched over the hospital's interior snatched away laughs and cries and shoulders to cry on like the grim reaper. it came in like the plauge and there was just not turning back.
and the worst part? the news, the messengers, were so mototoned. no feeling. no emotion in the delivery of the news. its always a cold hearted "im sorry" with a side of "there gone".
These highly paid messengers whom wear the white coat which should symbolize purity and angel like creatures, cover up their mistakes and sew up the secrets with "we did everything we could". but when they actually accompanied the road to nothingness. When they actually stuck the bullet in the wound, when they actually choked up and messed up-they punched in the wrong numbers to the wrong program causing it to shut down but we are all only human right.
But the real tragedy passing the fact a lifes last grain of sand has fell to the other side of the hour glass, are the mourning humans whom still lurk in the shadows of the same **** gross hospital. Its as each time I enter the doors of the hospital, i enter the realm of death. Each time we enter death is delivered to us and each time we step into that same **** hospital the rain showers of despair and hurt, and confusion.
All that is left now are the memories in-beaded in our minds and rest in the crevices of our hearts. All that lingers are those giggles and smiles and the past. All they left was a footprint..... in our hearts. And now we stand.
Left with the sterile.meek.sound...and the coldness...of the same, **** hospital.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Wailing walls, howling fences
Encaged and blocked by barriers
All smashed, sorted in security fence
Miles of humanity and flesh torn apart
Why is it that we can’t live together?
We bleed the same coagulating blood
Lined up and humiliated in alleyways
Paths of iron bars and imprisonment
My veins wringed, intensive torment
Mentally distracted, strained by grief
Settlement, conflicts and border struggles
Governance, religious trickles of disunion
The biblical birthright verses human rights
The unsighted straining peace settlement
Shadows of the peace blueprint screams
Ongoing reconciliation, milked in small doses
Whose home is whose? Subdivided in areas
Controls of disillusionment undisclosed
Unmanned checkpoints evokes fears
Revolving cameras tossed and turned
Bansky slogan “make hummus not war”
Smashes freedom to uproot and merge
Constitute and construct peaceful resorts
All horns blowing to collapse duality
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
Today is going to be the day
I turn my life around
As I pull my truck over
To load up what I just found
I see it as my destiny
Someone tossed out their set of weights
With me at the moment in the mood
To join the fitness craze
So I open up, run around my truck
As my regiment begins
Wish I could find some neighbor kid
To give this old man a hand
And why they make these weights so heavy,
I'll never understand
I drive straight home excited
Back my truck down the drive
I'll haul the stuff in later
As soon as my arms come back to life
3 hours later...
Carrying what's soon to be the new me
From the truck into the house
To late to clinch the **** cheeks
As my entire spine just fell out
3 months later...
Still in intensive care
And mounting chiropractic bills
I'm thinking of just going the new American way
And get my muscles from taking pills
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
I was abused literally and pushed aside by teacher
He was in rage to see me when I tried to enter
He might have some grievances in mind to nurture
As I was doing fare in studies and position was assured
I was really ashy boy but excellent in pick up
I heard attentively and was cheered with thumb up
His behavior as teacher made great impact in mind
I might have taken it lightly if he was harsh or unkind
It is customary to show little disrespect to the poor students
Some of the discourtesy is extended with inferior comments
I was unable to think further but bore a grudge permanently
I remember those abusive remarks and resisted him once vehemently
I thought and rethought about such behavior
As teacher he would have been considerate and held honor
I became reserved from that day and decided to keep silent
As it was now known to me that best way is to offer no comment
In social circle too certain disliking exist for people
It may be more intensive when they are incapable
Not in financial capacity to move forward and compete
Live under their dominance and agree to submit
I remained firm in approach but turned away from close contacts
I kept good will at heart and prayed for their well being in fact
This gave me enough of strength to observe them from distance
I was taken little note of and none observed my presence
I return gesture with kind words and remain aloof
I have enough of strength financially as single proof
They dare not to see me with inferiority and pull down
As I have established of my own and became powerfully known
I wish that same kind of maltreatment is not shown
To children who are unfortunate of having means of their own
They are really asset to us and builder of future generation
How can we be indifferent when question of building nation comes?
I have known some of the people getting blinded
By sudden arrival of fortune and secretly confided
Their common sense gets unnatural boost to reveal
The arrogance is reflected and shown with no efforts to conceal
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 7:48 AM UTC
About: CFL
4/13/13
You made me love you
Against my will
You grew tired of me
But I love you still
Am I as unloveable
As it seems?
Can I only truly
Be loved in my dreams?
I did nothing wrong
And you threw me away
Was I just a distraction
For a rainy day?
I thought we were happy
That we'd never part
Then out of the blue
You broke my heart
You said 'forever'
I thought it was true
I never felt for anyone
What I felt for you
I feel it still
Though you obviously don't
My brain says 'let go'
But my heart just won't
They say to move on
And meet someone new
I've tried and I've tried
But my heart's set on you
I hate you sometimes
For hurting me
You made me fall
But didn't catch me
You walked away without a scratch
I was put in Intensive Care
You're safe at home without a care
I'm lost without you; still gasping for air
It's been years since that day
My world fell apart
When you crushed my dreams
And shattered my heart
But my heart still holds on
My love was so true
I've tried to let go
But I still think of you
I want to move on
For this wound to heal
But time only EASES
The pain that I feel
The wound's not so fresh
The pain not as bad
But still it hurts
And makes me so sad
Confusion and hurt
A wound that won't mend
Longing and sadness
That won't seem to end
I wish and I hope
Let this be the day
My sadness and longing
And hurt go away!
I'm sure it will happen
I will move on
But I'm tired of waiting
It's taking so long!
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
I.
You can always tell the
Virgins from the way they
Glide—cerebral giddy with nectarfilled
Hearts and earlobes full of
Wax/
Wane moonshine turf if you’re not
Dying for astronomers’ loves and what makes
Ptolemy different from Claude is
Given prove:
Equal and opposite reaction.
II.
Shove knife down pork
Wasn’t so hard, was it.
III.
TWO SOLIDS INTERSECT
In a plane. In the bathroom, to be exact.
What follows is not
Essential to the proposition;
Calculate the spatial
(surface area, volume of cubicle,
conclude insufficient is <
where escape
velocity is )
useless to
resistance factor 7 [prepare
for lift-off landing
taxi
To the Bronx of course where else would I
Be on a night like this it’s raining in the parlour
Wont you step outside?
III.
anemic & half-
starved half-
sandwich
go on,
have a bite.
IV.
in arm will undulate bloodcellspouroutcantstoptoowide
are you just imagining this?
What would they tell you in school blood is
thicker than water
i’m not sure they eat
carnivores here.
CARNIVAL
festival of meat.
Flesh
LIVE
trembling
quiver SWIFT shoot through air DUCK dead swandive nosedive outplug
BOOM go the couple in the cabin
lavatory
laboratory? Rats go bang in the night
crash & burn debris over Detroit is our
favorite way to die
colorful isn’t it rainbow—
brushfire—
bruises and fire storms out and around the
populace to decimate seems like mating by a factor of ten
V; or. X^2+i(70x7)=
aftermath:
my ex squared
with me seventy times
seven
equals in
fortitude (labor-intensive)
tea costs sixpence in dallas what about
you so
integral to my
being that sometimes I wonder if you’re just
imaginary or if
what it takes to be transcendental is
beyond what’s rational or even what’s
real to me:
eight is
enough for the eggs.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
When it's time to tell the boy, the name
Of my pet elephant in the bedroom,
I know to expect one of two reactions.
His eyes could widen, with interest,
At the prospect of having stumbled
Upon America, a new world.
They only want to plant their flag.
But more likely he will grow quiet,
Not knowing what to say to fix me,
I didn't realize I was broken.
More likely my virginity is not a
Responsibility he signed up for.
He won't leave me right away,
But for all intensive purposes
He's no longer with me.
This kind of distance is not
Geography related.
Now holding hands is a chore,
For it's no longer foreplay.
What's the point of taking me to bed
When there's that much pressure.
He doesn't want to give me the wrong idea.
He love's me, too much to
Take that away from me.
I don't want it taken from me
I want to share the best parts
Of ourselves.
I want to come together,
In every meaning of the phrase.
I won't let the oppression of
God in our bed, but I want
To utter his name in vain.
I decided a long time ago
That I'd wait for love, but
I never thought that love
Would make me wait this long.
Never thought I'd avoid first kisses
With the fear they'd be last kisses.
I never thought I could scare boys away,
But my virginity is no longer an elephant.
It has become this dragon,
That no one is brave enough to slay.
And so I sit, in my ivory tower
Of ****** frustration, and wait on love.
I'm waiting for a third type of reaction.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
you are the words that breathe through me. lift, move me. the item for a shopper's perusing; for use and abuse-ing. i'm your bend over barbie doll, your late night ***** call, the push over & the fall. i scrape myself off your boot; keep waiting for trees to bear fruit. it's funny how you can **** me til i'm lame & i still believe i deserve more pain.
how can i believe i'm worth your while when i know you don't care about proving it to me? it's so much sexier for you to see me beg, watch me grovel & worship your **** as if you are my only hope (for all intensive purposes, i mostly believe you are; you save me from facing myself at night. seminated distraction as masochistic salvation).
leave me mangled gasping hair tangled in your fingers grasping & you're lingering by the door, contemplating whether to leave me or take me on the floor. this is all i am to you: tested tried wrong used. bleed me until you stop seeing red, drag me willing or indifferent back to your bed.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
The Swedish Tax Authorities
were sure they had their man.
He owed a lot of kroner
They saw through his crooked plan.
When he got out of intensive care
He wouldn't get too far.
No one escapes the tax man.
Like death, their grip is sure.
The suspect's heart was failing
and no replacement could be found.
It was either a jarvik Seven
or he was destined for the ground.
Doctor's worked for hours
His life was in their hands.
He had the cash to pay them
about one hundred grand.
An artificial heart was placed
in his chest cavity
to replace his own
which had been starved
of the oxygen hearts need.
The tax man thought to nab their prey
as soon as he came around.
His attorney said " Unhand him,
a loop hole I have found!"
"Per Swedish law a man is dead
when his heart has ceased to beat.
You are barred from prosecuting
a man who is deceased."
While the Tax men sorted out
this novel defensive line
The man fled to a haven
where he enjoyed the fruits of crime.
He dined out on the novel tale
of how he and only he
outwitted death and taxes
and obtained immunity.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 11:36 PM UTC
Chairs were creaking from the strain of ignorance,
as the habit of ignorant anticipation gripped the
edge of a creative moment to disrupt thoughts
which hoped to choose the pastel colors of an
expressive photograph. Rather than deep garden
saturation, the light, fading to become ghosts
of movement, offered a place of acceptance. Shrugs
rounded the shoulders of the road, so it could be
claimed that no responsibility hindered the
development of suspension systems. Political
levitation supported the dancers as they turned onto
the public stage in a forum of occupation. The state
of the street, in the absence of smooth nylon, brought
the parachutes down to flutter, disconsolately, above
the pavement. Single waves of regret were drawn
to leave the stage, but, as this effort was declined,
determination measured resolve based upon
community options, described in the local papers.
Setting the pages down, each day, the play became
enamel baked onto the restoration and the satisfaction
which kept them all together as a group. Certain
curtains were raised, as others were lowered to close
the door excluding the poor
from the equal share of space related to the experiments
of the place.
Conversation by clerks sculpted freedom to crimp the
brass cases in ways not accepted by sprites in mid
flight. These were the colors in the ledger interpreted as
shades of gray or flashing midnight blue, faint copper,
and pearly white. Forces of education were dismissed
as a superficial demonstration indicating the character,
intensive.
Thus, they were reaching for the money, but funding
remained a gift offered only to those admired and,
through the glass, profitable by cultural attributes. Some
thought the process was the singular importance of an
event. The dancers were dreaming, as they rehearsed.
Another kind of artist discarded the event in favor of the
documents and images meant to persist. These, the
dancing players favored as memories to be contemplated,
some to be cherished.
Materialism, since it included spirit, ruled the transient
existence experienced as joy. Perception brought
enjoyment into being, yet when the unusual critic walked
away, it was a dispossession. Other critics were members
of the team.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Last night I witnessed the deterioration of our current generation. Talks of shots and girl's tight tops, which beats are sick, which beers have hops.
A dance floor full of bodies doing nothing more than rocking; simply swaying back and forth letting their bare skin do the talking.
Girls are laughing loudly, flirting dumbly without pride. Boys are softly grabbing, trying hard to get inside.
I'm not under the impression that a club is good for sessions of intensive conversation; but there's a line of crossed digression 'tween a dance or delicatessen and if these young kids don't lessen their completely bared obsession with finding a *** connection I fear loss of life, regression and required intercession so we may stop this great depression and procede with the progression of these young children's ascension to the spiritual dimension.
They owe it to themselves to see there's more to life than spells of boredom bleached by alcohol and music loud and dollar bills spent carelessly on swaying wills of little girls who get their thrills all fully spilled out of tight clothes and popping compact coloured pills.
And as I danced to pulsing beat, seeing all eyes know not discreet, feeling an overwhelming stream; an ocean trying to break free, behind the dammed up river beds all dried up in the drunken heads, I felt much higher, even hallowed, for while you're playing in the shallows, I know exactly where I'll be, diving into the open sea.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
There’s a feeling called
the drifting force
that makes you want
to shift your course
and find a better vector
on boring study nights.
They’re so many things
a girl starts missing,
like hugging, dancing
and oh, yes kissing,
when she lets a dry syllabus
control her life.
After several hours
of intensive reading,
your intuition is that
what you’re needing,
is something we’ll
politely call ‘delights’.
But you make the almost
painful choice
and factor out your inner voice
and you pick up yet another book
and not a boy,
because, you see - it’s really
a necessity, not a choice.
Sep 13, 2023
Sep 13, 2023 at 7:32 PM UTC
Hey guys,
I think this is more of a notice than a poem,
But I got let out of the hospital last night after three hours of being on a respiratory machine because I was seriously struggling to breathe without any aid.
All this because I had a severe throat infection that spreaded into my chest and effected my lungs.
All thus just to tell you guys that this could either cause one of two different things.
I could either:
A) be soon taken back into intensive care where the WiFi is horrendous and not be able to make it back on here for the next...while (I don't for sure how long it's going to take for recovery, to be perfectly honest x)
OR
B) I'm going to recover enough to stay at home with several antibiotics to keep the pain bearable and have a nebulizer by my side 24/7 whilst still having a good WiFi signal so I can keep in touch with you guys.
I'm really hoping that optionB will be the one that takes shape because you guys are part of my internet famalam and not being able to hear your lovely work day-to-day will tear me apart the most **
Have a blessed Sunday everyone, love you lots **
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
She stared blankly at the computer screen
With its flickering screen of judgement.
What are you looking at?
Silence. A screensaver.
Enough of that sass.
It was finally complete.
Her hair wearing its disheveled frizz like a badge of honor
From all-night typing
And two pots of coffee
Where her comb-fingers turned the smoothness of her hair
Into a stress-reliever
As she muttered madly to herself
(But quietly, so as not to wake the roommates
Who slumbered in their honey chambers
Away from the heart of her hive of activity).
She had buzzed all night
On a caffeine-high
That made her hands tremble
Her muscles ache
And her eyes hate her.
And now
With too much to do
And a limited time to do it in
She had to keep buzzing.
Coffee *** number three was carefully stored
In a travel mug
That she clutched to her clavicle
Just to keep the warmth that much closer to her hyped-up heart.
She made her stops at offices and libraries
Retrieving promised letters
And printing the labors of her night intensive
Before she could finally deposit it
Behind the glass windows
Of the scholarship office.
This is too much work for less-than-ideal odds.
But she had no time to dwell
On the gamble she had made
And paid in hours of wakefulness
And the inked-up peelings from tree corpses.
She rushed from class to class
Where she tried to speak in coherent sentences,
To dance with sharp choreography,
And to contribute to society
But her body hated her
Because she had betrayed it
And deprived it of the only thing that it truly loved in this world:
Sleep.
It would have its vengeance.
It would have its vengeance when she was old, creaky, and could no longer move.
But for now, her body made do with small rebellions
To demonstrate its displeasure.
Sentences were not sentences
And every turn, leap, and twist
Made her think longingly of sleep.
And her body laughed.
But at long last,
The sun set
The girl slept
And then the sun rose.
And this continued to happen
Many times.
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
Until she had forgotten
And her body had forgiven
The sleepless night.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
The last times I wore a french braid:
17, laying on my stomach in the psychiatric intensive care unit, (adolescent)
I reach for my hair, and let them grow tired,
tirelessly overlapping the strands until the entire mass is taken care of.
I stay on my stomach,
I try not to move too much or the orderlies will think I'm at it again.
A few days later, in the unit common room, my new roomate has me sit in front of her.
She runs fingers through, twists and playfully tugs she says if we hadn't met here she'd be in love.
I agree.
Still braided by her delicate hands my hair flicks as we giggle together into the early hours of my 18th birthday,
sipping at ***** dipped pepsi she had her sister sneak in.
The nurses chant "this isn't a sleepover! Get back to your beds!"
But we are kids,
So we feast on the cookies and crackers I'd been shoving down my pants at mealtimes then she waits patiently as I purge them.
We make blood sister bonds in our skin with razorblades and she braids my hair one last time before they move me to the adult ward. Because I was no longer a kid.
So the next day I cut it off.
I cut it off the next year too.
And half way through the next I cut it again,
keeping my hair just out of braiding reach,
Just out of length of fingers running through,
twisting and playfully tugging,
I like it a mess, so they won't fall in love with me anymore.
Braidless, I can stay distant, unattached like the feeble, overdyed locks matting on my head, but I can feel it growing every second
20, I lay on my stomach, hospital bedsheets unruffled in starch allegiance,
Reach behind my head and see if it's long enough, and I braid.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek" : A Tribute poem to my beloved Dad: Late George Maveli
_____________________________________
• My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek" :
• A Tribute poem to my beloved Dad: Late George Maveli
____________________________________
My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek",
Though in Intensive Care since a week,
But I know He is still sleeps by my side,
He still makes me happy by elephant ride
Putting me on his bare back to continue play
Taking his strong arms to go fast or to delay
And to repeat the black elephant's game
Making me to be happier and fame
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
He died not too late in my hand,
but lives still in my own soft mind
I wish time wouldn't go forward,
then I would make a good reward
I try to have and repeat old memoirs,
my minds mostly turns to summaries
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
I wish I had my dear dad by my side
The stories I hear about ocean tide,
To my eyes it brings more and more fear
Before I had to say good-bye, a drop of tear
I wish I had more fun time with my dear
My mom lets me know how much he care
Since I was too young to have love to share
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
_______________________________________
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
_______________________________________
NOTE: I left my dear Dad (Late George Maveli) in the hands of my Lord Jesus on Saturday 19th July @ 1630 hours Indian time. He died at the age of 89, I am his eldest Son. I regret to express to all my beloved viewers and my well wishers of Hello Poetry. I shall post my poems after a weeks period of condolence - WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
In 2009, The american disaster film "2012" was released.
Preparing for "The End of The World" was easy.
A piece of cardboard at a Red Light.
"2012 The End Is Nigh, What's a dollar?"
We might as well have smiled, given a friendly wave,
honked our horns like we were passing the Freeport Flag Ladies.
In 2012, I was in high school with my first job.
I didn't care that In the twinkling of an eye,
we were gonna hear God's last trumpet.
On Rapture-Eve, I set out "Milk N' Cookies" for the "Left-behind"
I left next mornings outfit on the side of the road as if Angels abducted me butt-ass naked mid-stride
Turns out, the red light never turned green.
The "left-behind" kept breeding
and Hell on earth just kept recruiting
Now it's 2020,
The Freeport Flag Ladies are in Quarantine,
the signs have needles in our eyelids like mechanical spiders,
You can't even turn the news off now,
I pick it up at CVS Like a Controlled substance prescription.
They make you call in once a month to get it refilled.
Some how my amazing wife Amy and I
Not only survived the rapture,
we brought a brand new life into it.
For 10 days we were locked in a hospital
We never looked at the news.
The world melted away as we danced together
Waiting to meet our little miracle.
After Amy was whisked away for intensive surgery
and survived the most unspeakably amazing thing in the world
a nurse eventually grabbed me and asked if I wanted to meet my daughter,
I was guided to a baby table
with knobs, meters, heat lamps,
and on a tiny cushion
in a tiny plastic crib,
My daughter.
Sophia Naomi Mae Coulombe.
wide eyed
staring into my pupils
wiggling
perfect
Now we are home.
No nurses, no IV.
Somehow it feels like the end of the world and all it's chaos
was the best thing that has ever happened to us.
Everything happened exactly when it needed too.
We couldn't have had better timing
if God planned it.
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 1:39 AM UTC
Your eyes are introducing an attentive gaze
Analyzing everything, you see
Commanding the unfamiliar to be openly revealed
Exhibiting your intensive curiosity
An open expression of gathering awareness
Gently glows there upon your face
Transcending all of the troubled disturbances
Communicated here in this place
There is a vast swarm of shifting transformations
Not seen by the unguarded eye
Now zealously revealed to your attentive gaze
As your awareness begins to rise
The harmonious elevation of your wondrous unveiling
Strikes a chord in the depth of thee
Awakening the knowledge, you hold deep inside
As what is hidden, you can now see
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC