Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Julia kRu Jan 2010
*

Interjections come bubbling down
To burst the mind.
Choral injections,
Humming injections -
Mean, mean, mean clowns:
Dancing madly in kaleidoscope gowns
They shamelessly grind
The last grains of my sanity.
The reality is quite snippetty -
And thus parallel worlds are designed.
Oh! - let me go, let me go!
To where Alice is Queen.
To where she sits
Among her kingly mirrors
And teaches the art of
Being seen
A trifle here and there,
And always - everywhere!

(c)kRu, 11.10.-17.11.2006
Hyder Nov 2012
Perfection
The subjection of one’s interjections
Based on the world
The world of today
Can you change what you think
What others have to say

Were interconnected but not in connection
With a convection of perfection that inhibits rejection
Or constant correction of certain parts or sections
That people fail to mention for their own protection
Believing a misconception to gain desired affection
Wasting their discretion for a false obsession
Thoughts of concession and encouraging suppression
This is just one dissection of perfection
It is but one path, one direction
But this should lead to many other questions

What about succession from the term perfection?
Is it needed to drive people to higher ascension?
Maybe one day society can undergo a social resurrection
Where creed, religion, race, freedom are not held in contention
No more crimes, no need for detention
Everyone is happy, no more thoughts of depression
Everyone can be comfortable with their own reflection

Hopefully this dissection can leave a lasting impression
And drive home the need for a universal intervention
To stop and think what it means strive for perfection
For you may have it wrong upon further inspection
Cody Edwards Mar 2010
I reserved a table for the two of us
at the only restaurant in the world
that not only offers atmosphere and setting
but tone and syntax as well.

First some articles for appetizers. They're
easiest on my pocket you know.

An an, a the, and an a.
Let's not even start on the punctuation,
I'm treating you to a rather large meal.
As large as the entire English language,
now back to the articles.
Sure these taste like lint but they still
taste. Petit fours but there you are.
Try to be disinterested or you'll
put me off my food.

Nouns now. My, what a variety.
Bit meaty, eh? These have staying power.
They taste like a bit of everywhere,
and everyone, and everything.
What's that? Surely they're not that bland.
Maybe you need some seasoning.

"Adjective" comes from the
French for "to the word."
So exotic aren't they? These
really are fantastic.
Exquisite, unique, zesty to say the least.
You must admit, they
make the meal worth it.
I hope you're not allergic,
I could have sworn I just
had something "nutty."
Oh, it had nuts "in it"?
There must be some prepositions
mixed in here.

(I'm glad we're getting through
these now, I've never been a big fan of them.
When I was a kid, I would always push my prepositions to the end
of my sentences. You just can't do
that in a joint like this, it seems.)

Ah finally. The verbs are served.
Well-prepared it would seem.
Yes, anything you can do to a verb
they've done to these.
Infinitives (too good to realistically be believed!),
gerunds, and participles (No, not particles. But we
did have some of those at the Japanese restaurant.)
Fairly lean too, as I can't see
any auxiliary fat.

For some reason
those adverbs (just to your left, under that
thesaurus) really go well with this.
Plus those adjectives from earlier, rather pleasantly.

Now a brief selection
of conjunctions, but don't ruin
yourself. They're not a meal of themselves,
just a link to...

Oh! Look at those interjections.
So delicate, so (Wow!) incisive.
I told you to keep your appetite.
Well, just try a little of this. Goodness, me!

And then everyone proceeds to
die  
from a split infinitive.
© Cody Edwards 2010
Allen Robinson Jun 2016
Parsed upon a river bank
the north shore
as the confluence
gathers and flows...
swift as the Stratus clouds above
I attempt to find the meaning
of everything
Just one of those lazy
summer day
with time on my hands
speculation abounds
as my INTERJECTIONS
ring true in my head
I surmise nothing
yet proclaim to the
realization
that
nothing
will ever be the same
we move forward
we grow and learn
that is the extreme constant
Rolling with the punches
will lessen the burden
of changing times
We have no choice but
to adapt
or be left behind
See clear the way
of your short life
cherish it
live it
and
love it.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop
? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.
Nathan Pival Oct 2014
The paths we cross in life
With others
Sometimes dictates the paths we take
Whether we want to go it alone
Or with someone shared down a mutual path
Not knowing where it will take us
Or how long it will last
By choice or fate
The beaten path is in the past
To never look back
Hoping
Onwards to something better
Possibly something great
These interjections of people into our lives
Sometimes it lasts
And sometimes people are gone
Before their time is due
Most of the time
It's out of our hands
When people are gone too soon
Whether it be a friend, family, or lover
Instead of asking Why?
We must learn to say Goodbye
With no regret
And no looking back
Keeping the past behind us
Onwards to the light
Out of the black
Steven Fried Jun 2013
You are blue
Your companionship has long since gone away
Your words come slowly if ever
Your interjections have no meaning
Your passion is a doused flame
Your decisions are unfair
  
You are bronze
Your shine is lackluster
Your potential is untapped
Your enthusiasm is misdirected
  
You are rust
Your intellect is a-waste
Your trust is broken
Your mind is now clouded
  
You are brown
Your ear is unsharpened
You coughs are unnatural
Your friendship is valued even yet
  
You are orange
Your ethic is admirable
Your company is comical
Your life is my soaps
  
You are yellow
Your face is but fair
Your skin has blemishes
Your actions not so demure – but yet
  
You are red
Your actions are fuel for my fire
Your intentions are good but the crafted hands left wanting
  
You are Violet
Your pain was great
Your color is of love
Your solid perseverance is for me
  
You are White
Your brilliance outshines mine
Your patience burns as fast as light
Your opinion flares as bright as magnesium
  
Black is not found
Deep down I have looked
But came back wanting
  
Is that naïve?
JR Rhine Jun 2016
The soda can rumbles in the bowels,
tumbling into the gaping mouth
into which I enter a hand
to protrude my sugar rush.

sssni-kah, then the slurp of an obnoxiously pleasing sip.
I let the carbonation tickle my tongue,
reveling in the effervescent sensation.

The smell of old tires,
malodorous oil and gasoline,
and stale cigarettes fill the air.

My vexatious sips go unperturbing the dense atmosphere
that thickens outside the small air-conditioned office
and into the gas station,

where the mutters and sputters of drills,
kakadoo, kakadoo,
the squeaking and squawking of rotors and axles,
the interjections of swears and grunts
fill the air.

I peek through the ***** smudgy glass window in the door
to see grimy overalled ants meandering
under the body of our red mini-van
hiked up into the air like a figure skater,
suspended by the rusty clawed accompanist,
not a tremor of strain, unflinching,
letting the greasy men crawl underneath, hiking up her skirt
to examine her anatomy.

I walk outside and sit on a dusty tire stacked with others
on the side of the building--
some growing forlorn in tall grass
weaving in and out of the aperturous rim,
the fingers latching onto fissures and pulling it down
into the hungry earth.

Another slurp and I set the can down
to step onto my skateboard--
rolling across the gritty pavement,
snapping ollies and pop-shuv-its
to add my timbre to the cacophony
leaping out of the open garage doors.

I look over to the barbershop adjacent to the station--

The off-white single room squat allowing the cylindrical swirl
perpetually pirouetting atop the door-frame
to dazzle in a placid manner.

It is there I get my close trims
and pull a lollipop from the cavernous bowl
sitting atop the counter.

The barber, working silently behind his dull gray mustache
and dull gray eyes.

Outside the barbershop to the left,
Leicester Highway ambles onward,
diverging at a fork just ahead of the lot,
and the road adjacent that winds down my neighborhood,
Juno Drive.

I've never embarked down either divergent,
and I wonder which one is the less traveled.
(Frost, guide me.)

I go to the mailbox teetering on the edge of the highway
and hastily grab our mail,
the wind slapping at my *** as the cars whisk by
in their infinitesimal haste.

I feel like time slows once you step onto Juno Drive.

I turn around and saunter back to the station to see Billy,
my Working-Class Hero,
who I mostly see strolling up to the driver's side window
of our dull red mini-van
to loosely rest his arms crossed atop the window frame,
resting his sweaty forehead on his sticky hairy forearms.

Leaning in,

his blackened hands with his greasy smile
behind a scruffy scattered beard caked with dirt and grime,
atop a dark red leather face--
but eyes bright and merry.

His laugh, a phlegmy two-pack-a-day sputter
hacking and pummeling through the van,
all the way to me in the backseat peeking around mom's shoulders
to catch a look at this superhero anomaly.

And his southern drawl wrenching out of lungs
caked in tar and exhaust fumes,
that torpid slur that executes like the garbled hum
of an Oldsmobile engine chugging restlessly--

His laugh, an engine that won't turn over, sputtering to life
but falling right back down into the dirt,
lying on the oil-stained cold concrete floors ***** boots slipping over
and sticking too like wads of gum.

The charismatic mechanic who knew the answer to all things,
always ready to flash me that crooked greasy smile
stretching across his ruddy leather face.

I step back onto my skateboard, with soda in hand,
mail in the other,
and silently say goodbye to my Greasy Eden
before making my way down Juno Drive
towards the first house on the left,

following the road as it snakes past the trees,
alongside the creek, around the bend,
and out of sight.
Childhood memories.
Patricia Drake Feb 2013
I had to disassemble it
Our world
Take it apart
Bit by bit
Word by word
Those words
Letters
Full of meaning
Could no longer exist
Anywhere

My friend, my lover
And my refuge
Suddenly turned
Traitor
Turned foul
Deceptive
Dangerous
My friend, my lover
My language

So I began the demolition
Of clandestine concepts
Tearing apart nouns
And adversary adjectives
violently, I separated verbs
And adverbs
Thus impairing indecent interjections
Until our grammar
Finally collapsed

Now there is only silence
Safety in signs like
Minuscule monuments
All bereft of meaning
And I am in mourning
For I have no words
To throw into the void
Only memories
Of distant dialogues
Dreams
David Beltran Aug 2011
It was like a voice
It told me to wake up,
Get up and get away from the ground.
This is not the place.
This is not the way.

It told me you are not insane,
You have so much to play.
We all get discouraged from time to time
We always have people saying it can't done.
Creating interjections like impossible! and undoable!

That voice woke me up,
It shook me out and tore me down.
That voice has sung me to sleep
and has screamed at me obscenities.

But that voice and that voice alone
has made me, me.
That's why I love her.
She is my symphony, my scene, my hands,
But most of all she is my voice.
Would love to receive feedback and critique or advice. Thank you.
13 Sep 2013
in the grass lingering
subtle. new life, seeks.
life over distractions
will you buy attentions? for me?
i could try and persuade interjections
to interject anomalies. false.
in decay, blooming
death. closer than your mother.
unaware of the scythe
speechless.

despite selection
phrasing perpetually
simply put, arrogance
tests my limits. carefully.
picking out life from death
a masterful game. monotonous.
does the truth betray your senses?
do your eyes smell?
deliverance. ignorance for innocents.
there are millions. billions.
unstoppable.

watch my back. we’ll both die.
a rip in sound. feel the throat churn.
erratic vibrations disorient the world
they cannot understand us.
poisoned perception of the native mind
in struggle. in war.
recovering and failing the same.
thieving the motions. motionless.
all to achieve deplorable fame
dreadful.
DUH!
Sam Temple May 2015
recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******* complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –
Jordan Resendes Dec 2013
Can you see her speech?
Are you fully aware of her gesticulations?
Some don't notice, but
She ***** the life out of me
Always... prolonging... unnecessary... interjections...
Never fails.
Do you know how to stop her?
Round and round the world goes,
And you thought she was a quiet one.
Stop.
This is no poem.
This is an attack on your autonomy.
The verbs chosen with care,
those awful verbs.
Stop.
You are not human.
The electrical activity of your brain,
that's all there is with you.
Much like every brain, you feel--yes,
and you feel quite human.
Stop.
Unhuman inhumanity in the bliss-pool of ignorance.
Why not raise hands to be lifted out?
I warned you that this was no poem.
Yet, still you persist, and read, "you aren't capable of interpreting this because you aren't me."
Not poetry, despite a sneaky rhyme, no it's a piece of me.
Diary with pink ribbons and a list of all the boys at school.
Diary with lock and key within which I hide that which you can't see.
What if we all spoke in rhyme exclusively?
We would be forced to think before we drooled.
And no one could be fooled about just how ugly you are.
Ah, no, but thinking hides more.
Stop!
I might stream consciousness all over your lovely dress!
Then you would be forced to undress under the unbelievable scrutiny of total strangers
who ought not to give a **** but do
because they haven't tried on enough shoes.
Unlike you, who have tried on too many.
As if perspective were a shoe, mass produced, and inevitably falling out of fashion.
Alas, we are stuck with cliche interjections and archaic pronouns--thou know it!
Stop.
I forgot this was a poem.
Sharina Saad Jan 2015
Kind words
Praises for you
Nasty interjections
A little expression of madness
Romantic verses
whisper words of love
Love songs
Music to your heart
Stanzas of poems
You in every lines
Book of love
Chapters of tears and smiles...
Crazy something words...
Because of love....
Ate a plate of whey, with the weight of the nation
on my shoulder blade, away from any destination
so underpaid, my paychecks archaic
not even a quarter to go to arcades with
it’s outrageous!
misery must be contagious
haven’t seen happy faces in ages
It may just be time to vacate
break out like rosacea to the golden gate
every swig of this whiskey brings me to a bolder state
like Colorado
i weighed my options and hopped in my Silverado
like a desperado full of bravado
with the bottle, feeling tipsy now though
singing in staccato ‘**** an intervention’  
time to get uncertain,
speed full throttle towards the intersection  
laughing and swerving
through the red light cursing
and yelling interjections
with a bottle of bourbon
horns blaring, it’s deafening
my ******* ascending
just struck a deaf person
no ***** giving
i’m out of my mind, livid
get hired and fired in 5 minutes
from any job i was given
i’m tired of living
no one even knew i existed
until i started whizzing through traffic
causing collisions,
now i’m forcing decisions
on residents w/ moral convictions
who’d rather see me oral constricted
then remain mortal in prison
got these ******* endorsing petitions
to have me executed by poison injection
shot, hung, electrified, the above all mentioned
and did i mention-
My backseat looks like a knife convention
there’s an array of switchblades i had since fifth grade’s declension
Sketching art on the desk while serving detention
some kind of wonderful, no eternal reflection
i’m reflecting as i smashed into a connection
and see my reflection in the water
as i’m descending slow motion like deception
my body is in all different positions of flexion
this is met with favorable reception
hear the crowd’s exhilaration
i’m unwilling to indulge in anymore retrospection
just waiting to hear the splash
and waves crash then….
this is my rap song
Ceryn Jul 2013
I do poetry
not for the sake of creating confusions,
or miserable interjections, or an uphill struggle
to unravel such an ignominious mystery,
bound to recollect the scattered pieces of my soul
as it ends a series of endless wailing,
of countless days of badly breaking,
of numerous attempts to keep me from falling,
at the deepest fissures I am left with.
But, man,
Thank you.
I thank you all for that,
for as long as I have an ocean of emotions to feel,
for as long as this life gives me false guarantees,
as long as my heart continues to blindly receive,
as long as the universe gives us a reason to still dream,
as long as you have your eyes to read what I really feel,
I will not mark an end to my desire to fill
an empty surface, so as to truly reveal
that I may refuse to let the world in
but I know I can give it another try
in another time, when I get my old self back
and find her ready to feel again,
fresh and free from fancy frustrations.
Loud and sound, I will someday astound
the souls that tried to bring the worst out of me
and will divulge the best of me.
I'll say, at last, I am finally free,
and thanks for making me see
that even without you, I can always be.
Thanks for the memories.
Thanks for the tears.
Thanks for all.
It was truly a bliss
to let go of what it's not worth it.
Let's think it was worth it.
My crazy, little, once-upon-a-time-dream,
you saw how I ebbed out of my soul.
Now, you will be seeing
how I will flow back to the shore,
with a stronger heart and a bolder soul,
through this bland and lonely poem.
JR Rhine May 2016
I again glimpse of eternity.

I saunter where the shadows stain the streets.
I linger where my essence is silhouetted in the moonlight,
or beamed under a street light,
                                               or doused in headlights.

I loiter with friends in parking lots of frozen yogurt shops
in a small town--
listing torpid quadrupeds,
whose shells glisten and dazzle in the myriad of lights,
scrolling down the boulevard.

I find myself behind the wheel,
grazing among pavement pastures,
hungrily consuming the open road
on a silent night,                         in the still air.

          Night makes everything seem to go on forever.

From the speakers I hear the sizzle of ancient synthesizers
envelop the interjections of pulsating snare drum
slaps and snaps, cracks and claps.
          Hypnotized, I hit cruise control and drift ceaselessly.

At home, face illuminated in the television's glare,
my body buried under the weight of scattered sheets,
staggering dreams, snacks and drinks,
          my eyes burn steady into the void.

The television, likewise, burns into me,
as I ingest films that depict time travel in all its ambiguity.
I rip through the portal, feeling simultaneously
expeditious and sluggish.
          Did I stop time with breakneck speed,
or did I freeze like a river in the winter solstice?

Either way, I now stand outside the confines of mortality.

There's the sands of perception (identity)
muddied by the breaking waves of time,
where my sunken footprints
appear
and
disappear.

Relinquishing the captain's chair,
my mind fills with lucid dreams,
          from the TV screen.
Surely I know this is not reality,
but I cannot help it--
I am an accomplice in these chronographic schemes.

Though I appear in control, or at least aware,
I surrender my earthly duties to the conductor of time,
or its deviant: The Vexer.

The Vexer, the mischievous time traveler,
who dances between the dimensions,
with black holes for ears,
the speed of sound for a voice,
the speed of light for eyes--
it is the pestering worm digging throughout the galactic space apple.

The Vexer, who has wrenched me from my mortal footing,
to cast me adrift among uncharted seas,
with gloomy waters murky but heavenly
in its dark and rich violet glow,
like fires that burn hot hot on the color spectrum.
          A color less seen and therefore depicted as serene,
but all the more potent in its mystery.

The Vexer, with a wink of its cataclysmal eye,
grabs me by the wrist and tears me across the night sky--
I stretch thin between the television lines,
the endless roads and the mystic synthesizers,
peering through the night sky,
where human senses dull and the mind wanders--
          I have found myself in the Twilight Zone.

I am bound for eternity, ****** through the
tunnel vision telescope of man,
refracted as I bounce among the mirrors within,
expounded among the stars and the space between,
exploding in a brilliance in the vastness of its bliss.

The youthful laughter that ejects from the parking lots
of frozen yogurt shops,
the night drives with eyes that gloss over as it peers into oblivion,
dulled human senses that leave room for the mind to ponder,
the television screen that burns steadily into the mind,
the Vexer who oversees the mind's pondering of night life,
who like the court's jongleur skips and leaps
around the immensity of time's preponderance--  

Feigning insomnia to reap the benefits of illumination
in the infinitesimal night hour,
in these lingering hours that warp around somber hands
frozen on the midnight clock,
where thoughts of poetry flow and still bodies collect dew,
          the proximity of night life as it pertains to time travel:

The two are entwined.
Listen to Part Time's "PDA" album. (E.G. the song "Night Drive")
Many movies come to mind. Here are a few: Donnie Darko, Cashback, Memento, Back to the Future, Love, and anything from the 80s. Literally, anything.
Kendra Gatz Apr 8
Begging for mercy from a cruel false god
As the years go by, I’ve seen through the facade
But I’m still chained by desperation and fear
And the false hope that you’ll be sincere
And the pleasure you take in my pain will disappear
But it won’t
You don't want to change
You never will
So it will be my blood and tears you continue to spill
Consume me body and soul
Whenever you are hungry for a little power and control
Whenever the world is too much for you
You take it out on daddy’s favorite punching bag

Mother is on the stairs
But she might as well not be there
For she doesn’t interfere
Not even when he fists curl up
Not when there are tears
She watches with quiet scripted interjections
As she watches this towering god looming over me tear me apart
No apologies no remorse
Just me with ****** hands picking up the broken fragments of myself off the floor
I don’t want to be here anymore

And after the damage is done
She provides false comfort
Then angrily scolds me
“You know better than that”
“Why did you say that”
“Why didn’t you say that”
As if the looming tsunami would ever take mercy on me
So I cower in my room licking my wounds forever alone
For there is no one else’s hands to hold
No one's arms to surrender to
Just grief
And a false hope that one day,
I will be free

But even when far far away
Those cruel feelings and fears remain
For now they are woven into my DNA
Drusila Nov 2019
I reminisce about the conversations I had yesterday
I reminisce about tomorrow, all those obliged conversations I know I won't like
I am so nostalgic
Why so?
Except when everything else is awfully quiet
My own knowledge is a self-distraction
And no point of views are allowed interjections
I reminisce about this melody
It always plays out in my head
Like a walking party
Such a quicksand!
The more I move the deeper I sink into myself
As time goes by, the more I understand personal growth. I now found myself more often than not needn't earphones to plug myself out.
Olivia Kent Apr 2015
SHORTS
What happened to old time lovers?
Are they all centipedes with arms too many and hands that stroll too far too much.
Mucky ducks with oily feathers, skin that's nearly tanned, skin thicker than chamois.
Better for cleaning cars and propping up bars, before shooting off drunk in their big flashy cars.
****
Walking past Winchester cathedral thinking of religion, strolls by the river and trolls that hang out under the bridge.
More hands than centipedes, much bigger teeth.
***
The sky is riddled with starlight.
The night is out of sight.
Behind eyelids and dustbin lids.
Irksome kids.
Chrysalides and ironic sides.
Dark room developments.
****
Sipping milkshakes in bars
Music beating.
People meeting some new, some old.
Being bold, golden nuggets of suggestions.
Interjections will be sipping in dripping music.
Via ears that swallowed a delicacy.
As delicate as the child who spoke the words..I love nanny Livvi, tickled me.
Unknown before, thank goodness it's Friday .
End of a chapter, new understanding begun.
(c) Livvi
Just something a little different x
Anais Vionet Dec 2020
I wear my heart on paper
Ink fills my veins like blood
reviews cut like a razor
but I’m addicted to the pen.

I pump words with every heartbeat
I hoard paragraphs in my room
I take interjections like a ******
I wear verbs like a parfum.

I’m feeling the contractions
as I erase awkward phrases
I write sad poems that feel like skin.
and fill sheets of diary pages

I blush at lurid pronouns
that I conjure then,
I consider putting word-play off
but I’m sentenced to the pen
.
.
.
*Inspired by Michael R. Burch's poem: At the Natchez Trace
writing can be a torture almost as bad as not writing
Amelia Jo Anne Jan 2014
XIX
To my parents, a child was not a clay piece to mould with a master's hand, or a house that needed to be built up. A child is already a skyscraper that blocks the view of the landscape, or a tree that needs to be felled to make way for a parking lot. & oh, the cars they parked over me. Cars whose drivers were molesters. Trucks whose beds were piled high with excuses, empty promises, disappointments, backhanded compliments, interruptions & interjections. Cars whose trunks hid hateful words, accusations, pointed fingers, upturned noses, condescending looks, faces red from screaming, exasperated sighs & enough rolled eyeballs to make your head spin. They parked traffic-jam's worth of vehicles, stuffed & threatening to burst, of spankings for all the wrongs they thought they could slap right. To my parents, a child should not be guided, but told the way; a child should not wander & find his own path, but be dragged by the hair down the one they once marched obediently. To my parents, a child's spirit is to be methodically torn down; the gaping hole it leaves is to be packed tightly with worries of what others would think & beliefs that the world is untrustworthy, angry, spiteful, & always alert to where you are vulnerable. They never realized that when they thought they were gazing through windows, they were, in fact, with wild, bloodshot eyes, staring down mirrors.
to: my parents
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
i guess anyone can be dragged into some zetigeist point of interest; and as anyone, here are my two-pence argument.

so i'm listening to this "dicussion" -
or what became a heated debate...
firstly, since dialectics only works
           one-on-one between only
two people, and is subsequently
reduced to screaming and shouting
if staged in a public place
                    with interjections from
flies and gnats who throw in their
own two-pence worth of supporting
either of the two people having
   a "discussion"...
         well... another thing about original
dialectics,
                 and modern dialectics?
the *mediator
...
                   in original dialectics there
was no mediator, unless of course
if you suppose socrates was the mediator,
even so, that ancient mediator
             asked questions...
the modern mediator?
                 doesn't ask anything other than
asking one speaker to not interrupt
the other speaker...
                      the topic of discussion i was
listening to?
             transexuality...
           ****** confusing,
                  something confusing was bugging
me...
          why would i have to call a man
        a transwoman?
                       shouldn't i be calling a man
transman?
                   otherwise i'll be confusing pronouns...
or not using them "properly"...
    i just think that proper nouns are
not being used...
               it's not for the man to identify himself
as a transwoman...
           why?
                     i'm the "cis" man who's supposed
to identify the man, as a woman,
                     and what happens then?
   the man retains his inner-trans conceptualisation
i.e. i am beyond being a man,
              there i must show to cis men that
i am...
              e.g.? i was "fooled" by blaire white,
i thought she was a woman...
       and i still couldn't believe she wasn't when
she did a video showing her pre-transition
photographs...
          see!?    what's this ******* about
improper pronoun usage?
     what is happening is, AN IMPROPER NOUN
usage, by the man, who is a transman
within himself, but a woman to me,
   therefore i have no problem in finding her
attractive;
                  it would be easier to decide in
Scotland, i know that... is a woman who internalised
her transition and became a transwoman
           was wearing a kilt... and phoom!
        the garden of eden, and a river running
though it, down the middle.
Lauren Gorger Dec 2016
I'd hope that you'd see my perspective through all my projections,
all these interjections that came from the lessons in moments I have been tested.
And now it feels like I am testing the deity that moves within me.
Though I am not He, He is the sum of I.
Oh my, time flies through the darkest pits of my eyes.
Watching the sun rise and night fall,
when all befalls - the very reason I used to crawl, being held up by the only walls in the home that I would call,
or the walls that I mounted up to protect my heart from the very things that would ask me to halt or at least stall.
looking at them like "don't you know that I want it all?"
They ask me why I want it at all,
and I'm glad they asked.
Recognizing my purpose through every task is what I have asked myself to master.
Through disaster and through the water, the intentions that I offer will be as pure as water at the alter.
And I can be even softer than that.
But I can also be the one that never calls back, Depending on how you act.
Depending on how you blend with my plan of attack, we can be vast or we can retract every statement ever spoken when my love was awoken, out in the open.
They leave me exposed,
fully clothed,
stripping me of the trust I pulled from the instinct of my gut.
So it is a must that I, remain in sight, to self love that I, composed tonight.
It is the same love of yesterday, that never ran away, even when they, hold my hand while they turn their face.
Devan Proctor Jan 2016
I measured out, in both hands, the words I meant to say to you, and the interjections in my head.

All fuss and pain and clown games danced lightly and mockingly around the center of your demise, that which is invisible and fabricated yet completely real, and massively powerful.

The completely furnished, embellished, yet totally factual and veracious monstrosities that tore your reputation like a hard, cold blade invaded the private, the public, the distant, the remote and shiny leaves of a dark manifesto. And somehow, the literal appears most truthful, especially when nothing explodes into that active, dynamic Thing. (Result).

Essentially, you birthed the unreal to make real, and the made-real spewed demons all over our fragile little spaces. How do you intend to clean them up? The whole world knows you can afford to try, but can you ever really fix this? Like sand, your problems spread and stick to every moist and breathing life form.

I myself have always wondered why they played the music for you. Your meek and fragile nature, contrived by pressure, pressure that is easy to extinguish, the pressure embodying a dying breed encouraged by bounty and beauty, is somehow praised with music that belongs to the bold and primitive. Have you ever tried to face your own music? When it does not fit you like a glove on your delicate, struggling hand, is it time to join a new band?
Ameer Pather Sep 2017
These are the confessions of a mad man.
Society has negated his reflexion of sanity.
Crystal clear depictions of his self thought
All that lingers is his wanting to be understood.

The confessions of a mad man may not be considered
His bound by the reality that he only understood
Staring through a microscopic realisation
But he knows that rough sands make smooth glass.

A mad mans confessions; most times overlooked.
I've viewed his notions and thoughts.
His interjections of a time, passed us by so long ago.
His pure nature and soul, unbound by what we consider society.

I've known a mad man who only wanted his confessions heard.
His guilt, he could no more carry, his shoulders all burdened by the past.
All he wanted was for people to hear,
The mistakes that were made by people before us.
Lee Peter Apr 2020
Selection Criteria

We seek a person showing an authentic engagement with the culture of language. The applicant needs a broad appreciation of linguistic form and an inclusive approach.

Essential:

• Two good honours degrees from a top performing university - Or relevant experience as an autodidact or dilitante.

• A willingness to appreciate and engage in other people's expression of poetic form.

• Openness to the ways in which language is multimodal and able to blur the distinction between word, voice, sound, body and image, whilst being able to draw upon the conventions of each mode.

Desirable:

• Colourful life-history, and a keen eye/ear for human and natural dynamics, and the capacity to dissolve the distinction.

Please submit sample below:

There was a tree. Indeed, there was a tree... that night we played with Gertrude or some girl or boy or some other echo or other.

Had she not mentioned the issue with the fragmentary interjections by candidates? The capacity of evocation is lost with this fashion for modernism [Golden light of blue buzzard and some such and wot not before azure cream in winter time and  crystalline glaze] and its reflexive interruptions. Perhaps she should start again. [Does it even need to be a word? And what is this anyway?]. Re: Start again - good lord we are forced to read some nonsense [in the steam rows and the bath cabin], often with a similar flow. What about the art of pleasing our palate? We bump our heads against the brackets, elliptical conjurings and compound punctuation: -

Oh! ... Out of time? Battery low? Well, this will have to be the submission then. Good luck.
Alexa Sep 2021
Every year about 800 000 people lose the constant war they have with themself. A stranger to you, someone who meant nothing, but that someone once was somebody else's everything.

Our mental illnesses and disorders have been so overly glorified and romanticized in today’s media, music, and social media. It has become desirable and trendy, and it’s making me sick.
Our problems weren’t discovered, closely studied, monitored, and used to give us an answer to the questions why, when, and how, just for some teens to use it as a way to evoke shame and make fun of someone.
There are over 171, 476 words used in the English language, 10,000 adjectives, 2,123 adverbs, 46 conjunctions, 77 interjections, 17,450 nouns, 26 particles, 39 prepositions, 17 pronouns, and 5,986 verbs. I bet there are a bunch of other adjectives to call your friend when they “go crazy”.
So please stop using our chemical imbalances and the result of years of traumas because you need to feel unique.

No, we aren’t okay with you using our pain and struggles as a way for you to feel edgy and special.
“I Am NoT lIkE oThEr GiRlS” No, you are lying to yourself and
others by faking and exaggerating your anxiety and your depression because it’s “SO ROMANTIC WHEN A BOY SAVES YOU”.

But truth be told;
Kissing your partner's scars isn’t adorable.
Saving someone from a suicide attempt doesn’t make you a brave hero.
Anxiety disorders don’t transform you into a poor struggling soul needing someone to save you.
Depression never turned me into a misunderstood beautiful flower, someone who’s fragile and needs protection.
Bipolar disorder is so extremely much more than “just mood swings”;
When I have a manic episode it doesn’t mean I am suddenly super productive.
Dealing with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is not “so cool or so crazy” it’s best explained as living in an unpredictable nightmare, but you can not wake up.
Being paranoid is not cool, you are in a constant fight or flight mode, and you are thinking something bad will happen any second.
Having Anorexia is not the same thing as just skipping breakfast one morning.
Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) is not a “gift or superpower” you suddenly wanted to give to yourself with no right to do so.
Having social anxiety is not quirky, it’s debilitating.
Succeeding or failing a Suicide attempt won’t make all of your bullies suddenly stop being bullies and make them feel guilty.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is not the same as liking it when things are organized.
Bulimia is not a diagnosis you should aspire to get, you won’t turn into a beautiful thin person, you will turn into a dying mentally unstable wreck.
Being diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) doesn’t equal not knowing how to make friends and enjoying being alone.
No, You don’t have Tourette Syndrome (TS), I have never heard of a TS type where you only have trouble with “vocal tics” when someone is not doing what you ask them to. You simply just lack manners and have no idea how to read a room, your parents failed to turn you into a decent human being and you just don’t feel like working on it.
Insomnia is a lot more than staying up 1 out of 7 days a week because you “did not feel tired and was too bored to stay in bed”.
Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD) is not ******* easy to live with and doesn’t mean you are weak.
My daddy issues are not **** or make me a freak in bed.                          
Schizophrenia and other psychotic disorders are not “Only hearing and seeing things”.
Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD) doesn’t mean someone is coldhearted and evil.
Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) is not the same as having different personalities with different friend groups.
Addicts are not weak, dumb, or “only have themself to blame.”
Being burned out doesn’t equal you thinking school or work is boring.

To even get evaluated we often have to fight for years until we find a psychiatrist who takes us seriously. Some of us find ourselves dumbfounded by the answers to the questions we have had to deal with for years and stuff we thought everyone dealt with.
Others are not that lucky and have to do most of the work themself, they find out what is wrong after thoroughly reading every article on PubMed, MedScape, and WebMD they can find. Because, honestly, psychiatrists do **** sometimes.

Society has been fetishizing our mental illnesses and disorders for way too long.
You see my crazy as **** and desired until my crazy pops up out of thin air and ends with wounds, blood, traumas, antipsychotics, and paramedics.
We get belittled, invalidated, and have our symptoms dulled down because people get off to them.
I am not your manic pixie dream girl or your Harley Quinn.
If the “type” of people you get attracted to is mentally unstable girls with daddy issues, a chemical imbalance, and a lack of impulse control, you are a part of the problem.

Also, Meghan Markle won’t see the embarrassing Facebook posts you write about how you don't believe she was “really suicidal and only wanted attention”, but your suicidal friends will.

You know who’s not laughing at your jokes about how people who died or were lucky enough to survive their suicide attempt are weak and how they “took the easy way out”? Your best friend who’s barely holding on, or maybe it’s your little sister tempted by the bottle of pills in her hand, or maybe, just maybe, it’s your lover who locked themself in the bathroom and is currently gasping for air on the cold tile floor because they would rather go through their panic attack completely alone than having to ask for your help. Is your joke still funny?

We are asked: “have you ever considered how your mental illness makes ME feel? How much you are hurting me?
And yes we have. We worry about that every single day of our life. And every single hour we spend awake we are overwhelmed with the feeling that our loved ones would be so much better off if we just died, but thank you, from the bottom of our hearts for your contribution. There is nothing we love more than being reminded of how much of a burden we are.

I swear we aren’t monsters. The friends I have who are dealing with mental illnesses are some of the kindest, most selfless, and caring people I have ever had the fortune to meet. We have nothing in common except for our serotonin deficiency and we bond through our traumas.
We try our hardest to heal other broken people because we know what rock bottom feels like.
We calm them down and distract them from the breathtaking panic attacks and overpowering suicidal thoughts visiting them at 3 am, because we all know way too well how easy it is to slip in and out of your head, and how it feels to lose touch with reality.
We stay up throughout the night to keep each other safe and breathing because deep down we are all just a bunch of suicidal kids telling other suicidal kids that suicide isn’t the answer.
We check-in and remind each other to eat, take our meds and stay hydrated.
We repeatedly prove the voices in our friends' heads wrong, while we listen blindly to our own demons believing every cruel and damaging lie they feed us.
We are lost kids looking for someone to call our own and somewhere to call home.
We were all raised being told by either our mom or dad or some other adult to not talk to strangers online, because they are dangerous, and they would ruin our lives.
But my mom and dad couldn’t have been more wrong, because when I met strangers online, I didn’t find danger, I found a family.
I have felt love stronger than anything you will ever experience in your life.
We love like we have nothing to lose because we truly have nothing to lose.
We have each other’s backs and we proved that family doesn’t have to be blood.
I am forever grateful towards the ones who stuck around, and to the new ones that life brought to me. The ones who have seen me relapse probably a thousand times but never lost hope, and the ones who were never meant to stay forever. I will always have you back.

What I am trying to tell you with all of this is that we are all fighting for dear life to survive, some of us are so close to falling off the deep end all they need is one small event to tip over, and then we have those who lost their battle, who are gone but never forgotten, taken from us along the road to the place we are today, those the sickness quickly and carelessly took from us, and at the same time robbed the world of the most beautiful people we have ever met.
The world wasn’t ready for you yet,
Alexa
Jamie Treavish Jun 2022
Exonerated for a face no mother could love
Misconceptions and interjections of societies
misguided approach to beauty
Appearance is more than the physicalities
or the emotional travesties it causes
None of whom can ignore the plush bodies
in magazines or the hours spent looking
at hour glasses on silver screens
Smiles which gleam whilst those without
dentistry miss out on destiny
It’s not what you say, it’s what is projected
albeit subjective your standards are selective
Pavement crawlers to body bags, a failure to
understand grace runs deeper than
the vanity of man.
@jamietreavishwrites
Irate Watcher Aug 2017
Lately,
just the bumps
and the grind
no outlet anywhere,
just outlets everywhere.
turning everyone off,
please let me just focus
on the brightness in the dark.

Its lonely here,
and stifling sometimes.
speaking in brief
interjections,
my voice grows stronger.
no release of inarticulate
thoughts in small talk -
just dealing with them.

Waking up with
no aftertaste of moving
at someone else's pace.
barely noticed how I
was trained til
re-lax and just be me,
that extraordinary feeling
of being me,
in that place where
there is no try,
Just climbing,
just a smile
at sentiments
similiar to mine.

And my,

We're all just dropping in
and saying goodbye.
wondering what each other's
private life is like.

This is mine.
Keith W Fletcher May 2018
Push it back past
the starting zone
Leave it there
where
it can be all alone
Nothing gets past
The wrecking ball
In the futurescape
where
we have it all
What time will that be....
      ....when all the second's count?

I'm trying to reason
But can't get any comment
Of return interjections
Or objective renderings
Tries too hard to open up
that second tier of dreams
Used up that first one
Trying to weave a web
That then turned out
To be
much more slippery than it seems

Lost every resource
to the whims of vanity
Blew past the nervous guards
At the border of sanity
And that's where I pushed it back
Past the starting zone
And left it there
where it can be all alone.

— The End —