"intruding" poems
Punctured are the lungs I've used for breathing
This seething ever-romantic feeling
The peeling of skin that reveals the concealed
And opens up the undying existence of the unseen
As my own existence is also undying and unseen
My mind and ego trying to convince me otherwise
This is my illusion
Intruding my mind and infecting it with disparity
And with no clarity of what is to come
I drown in fear that I will succumb
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
Out of what our hearts are made,
The sea of stars above our little heads is widely spread, expanded,
The river of the milkyway, seperating two lovers, with more stars,
All come within a clear, manifest orbit, bound to gravity and bounty,
A vally of natural nuclear fusion reactors, spreading light through the dark of the night, a play of beauty and might, on the ceiling of Earth,
All shining uninterruptedly, without the intruding light of the moon,
In the world of empty dreams, waiting to be filled with memories,
Clusters, binary, trinary stars with their satelites, dance as celestial beings through the infinity of space, all with grace, individuality, bliss
Heartfelt, past the luxury of luminosity and spinning alike wage wool
Because stars are, a magic mirror to the things we are, or want to be,
Weave the fate that you want to feel free, broken loose from the lies,
It is best to dance with me on these fantastic grounds here with me,
If we gather in a dark night, my dear knight, we can grasp fantasy,
Dear trasure mine, you're, a distant eniment galactic heavenly beauty
So shine on until you someday let go of this worldly life, my dearest,
As then I would like to meet you in the realm of the dead again,
In the loitering darkness one day.
~ Umi
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
A fierce growl shattered the vampire's coffin
The wood cracks and the monster is awake
Hurry! Dig a pit for the creature to hide
Burn it before the sunrise
Oh do not let the world encounter this chaos
No one should see the vile mien
of a ferocious blood ******* entity
That thrusts its teeth deep into the delicate skin
and schemes for barbaric damages.
Look!
The naive creature stands with utter dainty
A revolting smirk sleeps on its face
Pale skin and a bloodshot gaze
An evil snicker revealed the fangs
See how the eyes move with hostility
Like a venom injected in the name of brutality
Sharp nails and clenched fists
Searching for a throat to slit.
The air now breathes a vengeful sigh
Like a wild beast craves to die
Dark shadows lurk behind the curtains
Silent whispers yodel about a burden
The creature stone eyed, stares back
I breathe quietly under the horrid impact
There!
It is coming my way
I can feel the intruding fear of a feeble prey in my veins
Finally, as if the monster made its mind
It opened the mouth in a solemn cry
A shrill voice so piercing, it shattered my facade
I fell on the ground like a broken glass
It was no monster or a Dracula that howled
Ah yes, my own reflection scared my soul
Years of self hate and agony prevailed
And I have been ******* on my veins in despair
My corrupt heart no longer beats
Darkness dwells in its core; so deep
Now watch the results of constant infight
I am nothing more than a mere parasite
A ray of sun touching me toes,
The toxic memories fading with the tick tock
Once again, I repair my coffin
And slither into a sound slumber on the symphony
Of a robin.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
intruding light
has corrupted
black night's
real character.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
Star that shines so bright
I just want you to know that I’m going to rewrite
And wait, even if it’s not right
"Hi" and "Bye," You only said that a few times
But this heart still craves those rhymes
Star that shines so bright
Thank you for the lightness
And rounds of happiness
This fondness that I knew
I am pleased to have met you
And I hope you do too
My apologies for intruding
But I will still be waiting
Even if I come to an end of still nothing
My apologies for everything
But I have no control over these feelings of mine
Star that shines so bright
I hope you’ll be happy all along
I will not say "Bye for so long"
Because I will still be waiting
Even if this ends in nothing
Feb 19, 2023
Feb 19, 2023 at 9:31 AM UTC
City lamps in clusters of concrete
On 18th and Sherman street
The cars pass by scanning me
Each unsound engine roaring
Darting pupils
I feel it on my externals
On my lips and phalanges
Intruding glances cascading over
my silhouette
Deja-vu-like resemblances,
strange
Sunken cheeks look bizarre
and blotchy as the socket drains
something toxic to the veins
that's permeated the future in an instant, like a comet,
encandescent and shimmering like a scale, the awareness fades
Like some dreary mirage
I remember those little band aids
Vintage carnival tickets
discarded on the scratchy ground..
Blue-violet bruises
The paradox of pleasure
A vague creature in
it's discomfort
sitting in defiance and
quivering my sentences
It reminded me of those
incandescent bugs that
smush into Chryslers
With a curled lip, bulging eyes
and ******* up tongue...
Antennaes intertwined like
Twizzlers
Making peace with all
that's stung as the
windshield wipers turn on
Some black tar-smack-oil-
******
My generation consists of
inheriting environmental
destruction and mal-parenting
Global warming. Animal extinction.
Polluting the oceans. Deforestation.
Biting shards off night-time to
suffice for the daily pangs
Shuffling the dregs of karma
to grow roots and vines all about the room
It's not Winter yet
Under this morning dew
I envision it in my mind
A crystal ball vision
contorting into smoke
I caught it in my breath
Catatonically hanging
A turtle with it's legs bending toward the sky
Searching for my tribe and a pulse
on this Earth in sentient souls
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.
It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.
It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.
This poem is *****
a SNAFU waiting to happen.
It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.
This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.
This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.
This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.
It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.
It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.
This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.
It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.
Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.
This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
We hardly fit with our jagged edges
and our heavy breathing, our holes
don't even coincide. Our symmetry
is imperfect, as imperfection can be.
We can't call it home. We're too
edgy to ever do so. It doesn't even
come close to that feeling of
comfort and love. We're not in love,
nor are we friends by any means.
Hardly acquaintances. We wouldn't
lift a finger a finger to help the other
No, this isn't home, love or friendship.
Our weapons are still on us. The poison's
hidden in the secret compartments of the
rings we gifted each other. We never
believed in anything but practicality.
I specially sharpened the blades I
brought with me. I know he loaded
some 'special' bullets in his gun.
We deal like this, like rival gang leaders
It's the only thing that has remained
the same through all these years,
frighteningly comforting in it's stagnancy.
It doesn't even come close to companionship.
It's definition lies somewhere between
hatred, addiction and need. Quiet intimacy
will prevail between us and anyone who walks in,
feels like they're intruding on something a bit
more private and clandestine. Though no one
notices, our spines don't relax even once.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
We slump on the couch when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
We have to, even though it was only a seven minute walk
to the dining hall, because 1) the food was just
“weird consistency”
(which we tend to say regardless), 2) the light
in there yawned indifferently to us (when does it not?), and
3) the reassuring clink of our forks on our
plates wasn’t even there this time it was
hiding underneath slop
and smothered on top by the intruding sound waves
(who asked?)
of our next-table neighbors’ lives.
You made a sly remark about seconds to catch
a glimpse of youthful ****
She’d gone to get some more baby carrots and cucumber slices
to put in her salad maybe
(who knows? who cares?)
Either way, her youthful **** would make the food taste like
something to you. And you
described them to us when you sat down again so
the slop would taste like something to us
(there’s pride in that type of generosity, don’t forget) and
(congratulations)
we had the faint impression of
some sort of
****** there, but
we didn’t tell you
(it’s easier that way).
A cup, a squeeze, a kiss on her ******* yes that could feed
our hunger for a night. And tonight was a night
like any, so her ******* led us to talk
of women, and women led us to talk of
love
(and the blooming one for the poor *******
as we who lost withstood the vicarious twinge of
an addling ****** very different from
the first.
This one led us to pine for sweets, but the ones we found
were dry, so we left the table, left the dining hall, looking around at
the others: the lonely, the couples, the blessed
lonely couples, and the fortunate friends
huddled against everything with open laughter, enjoying
the weird consistency like drunk theoretical physicists before
they discovered bubbles and inflated eternally meaning
when they safeguarded a
zoo with a pistol they didn’t know how to
use, in Soviet Russia.
(So you see?) We have to slump on the couch
when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
No one even bothers to pick up a guitar, we leave all four of them
strewn on the floor like
dead wooden boxes because
Dylan or Young or Cash (or whoever)
is already in the living
room. Any
bubbling, inflating, theoretical physicist
(any drunk, pistol-packing zookeeper, for that matter) will
tell you that.
So we slump, comfortably uncomfortable,
(at least we’re trying!)
feeling their (our) strings plucking. No sounds, no voices.
Because we don’t need
to hear this that.
Not right
now. (Not right
now).
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
Natalie!
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.
indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t
this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?
why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover
say!
where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?
so add :
come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC
the window looking through me
tracing my steps as i walk away
you're behind it, intruding
the sun sinks
lamp lights push me
the path bends my waist
now she's a memory
one of the prisoners behind your curtains
these spirits you hold captive
to whom you couldn't give back
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
4)
I moved into the woods
built a little cabin, below the rocks
and covered by the trees;
yet I had visitors
who had come astray into the wilderness
Someone wanting space for the night:
“Is there enough room in your cabin?”
“Why,” I said, “there’s plenty all round”
I was vegetarian
but the destitute offered themselves to me -
the religious might say: *God fed me
even in the wilderness!* Ha!
A wandering woman one evening,
she offered love in return
for shelter that night
She let me lick, taste her flesh
“Bite me,” she said
offering a foretaste in our foreplay
Why would they not leave me? –
these wanderers, the intruding world
No, I had not come in like Thoreau
or the Unabomber – but maybe
like the misanthrope Timon of Athens...
afraid of my own hate; but the innocent
seemed to be drawn in as to a...an...abattoir
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and often, an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toil from day to day—
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
2.4k
When love is being born,
The world is announcing,
The blooming birth of love,
That's unstoppable, racing.
Love is like a storm,
Intruding into your heart,
Infuriating passions,
Building bridges inside.
But, sadly, sometimes...
It can't find its own home.
In the hearts of two people,
Where love shall be grown.
When two hearts don't meet,
One goes left, one goes right.
The power of love fades,
Dwelling deep, deep inside.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After so many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.
There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
Death took him by the heart. There heaved a quaking
Of the aborted life within him leaping,
Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.
And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping
From the intruding lead, like ants on track.
Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,
Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
And these winds' scimitars,
-Or whether yet his thin and sodden head
Confuses more and more with the low mould,
His hair being one with the grey grass
Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,
Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,
Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!
2.3k
There was a time when the glass slipper graced my delicate la petite foot
that you guessed we had a similar future but discreetly
you mocked me
We should have been married in time and gently rearing gently bred children
but the lure of longevity, put you away from me, so many years
ahead of us
Guess what I put in the teapot of our delicately brewing tempest?
Coffee
Yes, coffee, that insidious brew that you refuse to drink with me
as we sit watching the sun gain it's zenith, waiting for it to become
an apex in the sky
And when it leaves its blood spread across acres of blue
I scream WHY~
Until we sink into the darkness of the night and black
becomes white
and the stars are just aneurisms exploding
behind eyes that are blind
I find
Excuses and non de plumes
another name for the noxious fumes
that you continually spew at me
Freedom, Anonymity
all which are acceptable to you
but not me
saying goodbye should be easy
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC
Boring and rude?
That's a rich call, coming from you!
But rude I'll concede,
Given the circumstances -
You pester me with calls and texts,
And invade my private domain,
And won't listen when I say, "No" -
What would you expect?
That I'd be grateful towards
A drunken lush intruding my peace?
That I'd be receptive to a needy egoism
More entrenched than Catholic Dogma?
No, that is not my way - No!
You can get f**ked! And I told you -
I had to spend an hour
Convincing you I wasn't interested;
That your infatuation wasn't reciprocated;
That, when you're drunk, you're not worth knowing;
That I've heard of your glory days
And your present travails a million times;
That you can't offer me what I need -
A decent conversation, nor a decent *******
And I told you - I didn't pull punches;
I didn't lie - I wasn't playing games.
I told you in no uncertain terms
And you didn't like my Truths -
Perhaps they touched a nerve?
Rude? Sure, maybe I was,
But there was no other way
To sink these facts through your alcoholic haze.
As for boring - I'll not concede boring.
I may not lead an exciting life,
But boring? No - anything ****
You've a hide, when every conversation
Begins with an "I", "Me" or "My";
Anyone would think the World revolves around you!
You take egocentricism to a new level;
So self-involved and hard-done-by,
You feel the need to inflict yourself on others.
Adios, me amiga!
And, Hola, me Amigos!
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
I feel the tendrils creeping in
Wrapping around my core, my neck
The muscles slowly strengthen, suffocating me
Making my calls so muted they’re virtually nonexistent.
I’m shouting though I can’t breathe,
But no one can hear my screams from the
Deep, dark trenches of the shadowy sea
As unbeknownst creatures emerge,
Leaving their places of sweet asylum
And intruding upon mine,
Yet, I still am stranded here in this place.
I don’t even know where I am,
But the voices of fear and insecurity in my mind,
Tell me what I need to do - when, why, how -
Steadily I hear a crescendo of a piano some distance away,
So far, almost on the outskirts of the complex town inside my mind,
Though I discover the music is waiting just around the bend.
A flats, F sharps – getting louder, louder!
“Stop!” I am screaming now
Or at least I think that’s me.
But the music blocks out my voice
That tender little voice of mine.
Suddenly, as I see a blonde-haired head pop up,
I lose my balance, and I begin to fall
Deep into an abyss, a magical abyss
With walls that close in more and more the farther I drop.
As the yellow light above me slowly dims,
I expect a rope, a ladder, anything,
But there is no one there to save me.
I realize the opening I see is a barrel,
And I am staring directly into its wide-eyed face.
A click tells me that the trigger is ready,
As the melody overtakes me and
I am caught in a whirlwind of music.
Spinning, spinning, everything going round and round
All I can see is the darkness behind my eyelids.
So I cry out loud yet again
But no one comes to my side,
Which doesn’t matter, I guess –
I don’t want my skin to be a bulletproof sheath,
Protecting and preserving my unyielding wall.
I want the demons to infiltrate my soul and strip me of this agony
So that I can finally smile amidst the ocean’s fury
As the tornado destroys my mind
And the tendrils of the music pull me in.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
Ever since, I've been afraid of the telephone ringing:
That metallic chime intruding at any second
Drawing us from our ornaments to "have you seen her?"
"Have you seen her?"
Maybe if they hadn't told me to get the phone that day
It wouldn't be quite so bad still
But every time I see that tree in our living room
Standing for family, love, hope
Everything that was smashed that day
All around me and entirely within me
Replaces again all that's been slowly healed
That red little ball falling
From shaky hands and weak branches
Shatters on the floor with a sound like a telephone
And those red little pieces linger just to be stepped on
Just to draw blood
And there is
Still
Blood
Two dead and however many phone calls
Shattering ornaments at every little decorating party
Where someone is stupid enough to say "I'll get it"
And everyone else is stupid enough to care,
Like humans do,
About all the things they can't control.
Like the snow falling, I mean,
There's no need to scream at the sky-
Your god can't hear you.
Just go back to the Christmas tree
And pick up where you left off.
There's probably 800 dead in Syria today anyway
And I can't seem to make myself give a **** about that, so
Why should I even really care all that deeply if
There's one less ornament on my tree?
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 9:33 PM UTC
My ex almost lover slides down the page of my messages.
I've got a whole book of faces, and his is the only one I'm looking for.
I have to click the 'see all' button to even catch a glimpse of him,
And even then, it is only his back in the mirror as he walks away.
I count days, hours, moments.
I memorize lines, words, syllables.
Soon, I will make the decision to try to forget him.
The lovely ex almost lover does not know this.
He thinks (at least I imagine he does) that I've already forgotten.
*But he beats a staccato song inside my chest, like a hard rain on packed, dry earth.
He wakes me every night with his silence,
Like summer coming to an end, the cicadas ceasing their chorus.
You don't know how accustomed your ears have become,
How much you need that sound, until it vanishes,
Becoming nothing more than an echo of memory.*
A week goes by before you ever realize what it is that has been intruding on your sleep.
There is an absence of the familiar,
and to keep yourself from falling off the edge into the abyss,
'dear God, will I spend the rest of my life alone?'
(Breathe!)
That habit of loving shadows reinvents itself.
*Once, I believed in fairy tales.
Maybe, I always will.*
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
My heart have no brakes
Just on a ride with the winds
Pretending to be deaf to what they say
For they are pointless like his dreams.
I can imagine the busy nature of a busy bee
But my heart is busier indeed
Discussing the issues of life in a silent plead
Still no ears ever listened to him.
My heart, a beautifully shapeless engine of life
Travelling far and wide
Intruding without being noticed
Harming not, adventure, learning are his motives.
Daily arguing against nature
Often in his extreme corner fighting for the weak
Heart broken by the harsh policies of his nation
My fate is his only whip.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
The rain pelts the window,
The Boyfriend who tries to get my attention,
Throwing its rocks at the window,
But I ignore and continue on with my work.
Mrs. Livingston wants a paper written
A 5 page paper
And Things like annoying rain mustn’t distract me.
Though the rain is easy to ignore
There is one thing that I can’t ignore.
Him.
He is there in the back of my mind
Occupying the space where numbers from math class should be,
Where my History homework on Napoleon should be,
Where He shouldn’t be.
Golden eyes flash before me once the room goes white,
A scent seduces my nose though it’s in my mind
Just a memory brought back to life
A ghost intruding when it need not.
Why? Why can’t he leave me alone?
Yet I know it’s not him that’s in the wrong
It’s me
And My gay ways.
Latching onto him
Clasping his words in its hands
Soaking up every syllable
Every word
Everything about him
Like a sponge soaking up the bubbles , suds, water, and germs.
The paper! I must get back to the paper!
He can’t be in my mind when I have much writing to do.
But
I like him.
More than like him.
I remember when at first I dug my heels into the ground
Refusing to fall
Then as time went on
The heels got eroded
The ground beneath me got eroded
My determination was eroded.
And
I
Fell.
An object forced to the ground not because of gravity
But because he had something about him
Something that made my body sing,
With bulking, twisting, and jittering.
Was it his smile?
That one little curve.
That one little curve with such shine
And such sweetness
It could melt ice
And have more sugar than a pack of Hershey Kisses.
Maybe his hair?
The constant loops
Of Wheat
Of sand
Of soft wool.
Taking me on a ride that never seem to end.
Or perhaps his Words and Speech?
The constant dragging out words
The sweet tune of the Hillbilly in his vocals.
Lost in his words that never made sense
Until I thought more of it.
Or maybe his demeanor?
The laid back student who dreams of going cross country in a van.
The one who seems to have everything figured when he can’t figure if he is up or down.
The one who attracts the negative and it turns to problems
The one who surprises me with his out of the blueness.
And takes me on such a high that it shatters by heart when he drops me.
I have to stop.
He is taken from me
That is a thought I mustn’t forget.
Why spend this time
Thinking
Wanting
Loving
Liking
Wishing
Hoping
When he has been taken from me.
I must finish the paper.
I don’t have much time.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
There was something about the silence
Something about the “Our little secret”, “Don’t tell anybody” silence
That kept intruding into our conversations
On Friday afternoons
The silence was the ex-boyfriend
Who ****** his “I love you’s” and “Baby”s
Right from his lips.
The silence was the ex-husband
Who demanded him to pay for everything
With him avoiding eye contact as acceptable payment.
The silence was the ex-lover
Who stole the romance
As it slowly got of his bed taking with it his words and love.
The silence was the reason I stopped talking to him.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC