"invalid" poems
I, a woman of letters, have been waiting for you, a man of numbers. I’ve been fantasizing of the day when you would deliver at the porch of my heart your algebraic equation. The x’s and y’s merged systematically with all the symbols, forming an indelibly inked pattern that would finally make sense. I have been waiting and hoping and praying, but all I’ve got so far are your invalid equations, the confusion, the uncertainties, the unsolvable mathematical sentence that I want so desperately unscrambled. How can you not, in your genius, find the right equation, even as I now try to draft a coherent verse?
for j.e.
013115
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
Human directives, veracities unverified
Bellies belching with anger, murderers
Udders dripping hate, foundling banters
Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate
Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink
Tear motions and debates of inequality
My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise
All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield
Emergency alarms sirens from 2003
The indefinite complications and hunger
A land of the displaced, starving nomads
Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts
Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious
A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws
Inhumane human interrogations persists
A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve
Force-feeding, torturous measures applied
All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed
A Rwanda slain in divide and rule
Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed
Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves
Machetes slashing necks and hands
A lust of power, a genocide slaughter
The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch
Autocratic regime boring divisions
Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust
The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles
Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill
Indifference pooled in pits and camps
The institutional social indoctrination
The honor and killing to expose shame
The violation and dishonor of moral fabric
For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values
Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit
Confessional secrets of only what lays within
A torment watching witnesses, all dangling
Marxists calls ships to stow ashore
Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit
Invalid contracts awaits signatures
The white immigrants to be enslaved
All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor
Wage packages taken to pay for freedom
Humans bought and sold to be owned
Slaves yorked and counted as assets
Bounded to serve plantations and homes
A human, non human, a chattel, a slave
A debt ******* offended and *****
Untamed and made to obey a master
A falling global strings unturned
Tunes strumming hate, war and pain
Human trafficking, violence, inequality
Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists
Commercialism, zero hour contracts
For if we have no rights, I have none
For if we have no peace I have none
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
Through the country paths, I lazily loitered,
watching Nature in its changing hue
straying farther into the interiors,
sundry and sublime vistas came into view.
in response to zephyr’s warm embrace,
the silvery leaves joyously fluttered.
the bees busied themselves collecting pollen
and birds on tree tops merrily chattered
it was the *** end of verdant spring.
summer’s sun stood behind my head.
bleat of sheep was heard from far.
‘Good day to you’….. Someone said.
There stood on the hill, a boy around fifteen
obviously he was of tribal breed.
with a beaming smile, he greeted me
but on walking to him, he ran like a steed
I saw him disappear behind the trees
and enter into a hut tiny as a nest
he lived in the lap of Mother Nature,
far from the city and its sooty dust
being coaxed, he hesitantly came out.
my tone of assurance and pleasing smile,
seemed to have won his confidence
as to a friend, he shared his eventful tale.
pointing to the sheep grazing in the slope,
he said, he earned a living caring the flock.
he stayed in the woods all day long,
feeding and tending his master’s sheep.
from dawn to dusk, through woods and meads,
he leads his sheep, calling them by their name.
un vexed, with simple pleasures he is content
and with a nomad’s life, he seems to be tame
he said, at home he has his invalid mother.
bringing her back to health is his mission in life
on referring to his mother, I watched his eyes glitter
nothing other than her illness posed to him a strife
from every utterance, I could sense his filial love.
even in abundance, while shadows line many faces,
on his visage, hope lingered as a dancing flame
to me he seemed above many, rich in other graces!
While parting, I handed him a little money
pausing unbelievably, with moist eyes
he accepted it, when a breeze passed caressing us
as if over a kind gesture, Nature seemed to rejoice!
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
What is ***
Society paints it as an equation
***** plus ******
***********
What is virginity?
A concept made up
To keep girls locked down
The breaking of the *****
Then do lesbians have ***
Are they still virgins?
Is their *** invalid?
No.
Oral counts.
********* counts.
**** counts.
*** is ***
**** is ****
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:26 AM UTC
Golden hearts frolic on lilac hills
rolling with the landscape, as does sunset on Mt. sill
nothing invalid, nothing untrue
prospects of no such thing as anything few.
where blue thunder rolls in lilac hue.
this place, far beyond anything anyone knew
we seek silent frills on lilac hill
where heavens eye shine not few, but all others too.
made of love, no solitude.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 6:49 PM UTC
INSECURE GENERATION
The generation of today is living an insecure life.
Life full of comparison
Possession of things without thinking of what may happen
A generation trying to prove others that they are the best
A generation where young and energetic men are trying to prove themselves by destroying others.
A generation where big and high class daddies destroy the young with material things
A confused generation showing their happiness and wealth through photography
A confused generation hard to love people from a broken family
Everything is invalid!
We suffer insecurities we didn't create
Many are becoming insecure
Completely unstable
Trying to compare themselves with our today's models and celebrities of our century
Probably hiding behind makeup
Cause probably without the makeup!
They,themselves are a hot mess!
They pay a ransom to look great!
If beauty is in the eyes of the beholder!
Then,why suffer so much trying to look spectacular?
Why spend to your last coin attracting a whole lot of people?
They say beauty comes from within
Our generation need to stand courageously
And fight against the enemy of self insecurity!
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 10:50 AM UTC
I see a flash
A sight to behold
The work of an immortal sculptor
Walking straight in elegant pride
Worth of a princess of the sun
Firmly transfixed in her twelve
Moving into the emptiness of an invalid society
Her innocence screaming
In an unchallenged clarity
And only twelve moons
The framework of her modeling salivates
Wolves in men
Who’s been exposed to the virus
Emerging from the bush land of their desires
To seek their vengeance in a fanatical hatred
And poor me the princess
With the *** lunacy roaming the streets,
Sanity of abstinence is the greatest challenge.
Swung from poverty to adolescence
A pendulum of fates
Hunger at home for the family
And her homestead a moonscape of desolation
The two hundred shillings does the trick
She trades out her innocence
And virginity too; a girls pride
And alongside the legal tender
Comes the virus
The minute monster
Savoring a society of huge minds.
There is the tuberculosis
In a hospital ward
Full of undug graves and shrines unnamed.
Drawn into the vacuum of her fate
Eyes wide open in dismal finality
The princess
Lie in freeze frame of death
A pyramid of events
Molded out of her last several terrible seconds
Lamentation for the society
A dull eulogy for our girls.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
A mirror is never just your reflection,
My mother once said
The mind has this devilish way of
Twisting
Things around
Making then a lot more or a lot less
That what stands before me
Suddenly
My face isn't my face anymore
Instead
I stare blankly at a blueprint
Society itself has hand-sketched
For me.
Post-it's on where things had gone wrong
Scribbles on things I needed less of
Highlighters on places I needed
Brighter brights
Thinner thins
And I just stood there
Watching
As these self-proclaimed architects
Unraveled
The plans they had for a body that wasn't theirs.
Accepting
The new rooms they had drawn next to the ones that already existed,
The ones that were always there
The ones I made a home out of,
The mole on my ear
That never seemed out of place
Until,
The impact of a critical post it told me so.
The place where my thighs met
I've always ignored,
Assuming I was normal
But the scribbles that
Begged
For less of me,
Proved otherwise.
The marks of stretched skin
I considered battle scars over a few calories at a buffet table
Nullified
By society's architects
Disapproved
As if it were up to them
Invalid
Like human came in the form of overruns
But I stare at this blueprint that suggests to change me from
Floor to floor
Head to toe
And wonder
If the one who owns the lot in which I am
Wonder
If He wanted to change me anymore than them
If He liked the original rooms
More than the ones carved to fit the trends
If He wanted me to ignore the architects
And the drafts of copies
And copies
And copies
Of different versions of me
Didn't He want me to accept the mirror for who I am?
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
I have started this letter one hundred times. I have referred to you as my friend, my "cousin", my love. No term seems more right than brother, as you have grown with me, and we have lived our parallel lives. I have known you since the day I was born, and I will know you until the day I die. I have long since memorized each freckle on your face, each vein in your hand, each scar on your hip. I am saying this in the hopes that you will understand why it hurt so much when you looked me in the eye and told me to calm down.
As we skipped rocks in the river that runs past my house, you complained to me about the cousin with the crazy feminist ideals. I laughed it off, and tried to reason with you, trying to teach my dear brother a valuable lesson. That's when you stared at me, with those gorgeous, piercing eyes, and you said, "I know women think they don't have rights, but like...just calm down, okay?"
Not okay. It will never be okay. It can't be okay until boys like you stop ignoring our pain. Stop writing off our suffering as hormones and gossip. Stop telling us that our feelings are invalid.
You have always said that I was your little sister. As children, you were the first to teach me how to throw a punch, so I could take care of myself. You were the first to grab me by the hand and whisper, "I will never let anything happen to you."
If you wanted to protect me, if you wanted to love me, if you wanted me to have what you have, you would not ignore the hardships of myself and my sisters. You would not tell me I'm making it up. You would not tell me to calm down. You would not stop until everything really was okay.
I wonder how much you actually know about feminism, and how much you actually know about me. Once I thought you had memorized each piece I have given you, the way I have memorized every curve in your body, and every corner of your brain. I suppose, looking back, you never were the best listener.
The day before you came to me, angry about the unfairness of your parents. I would never say to you, "I know you think it's not fair but like...just calm down, okay?" When you came to me about your anxiety, I would never say, "I know you think it's hard, but like...just calm down, okay?" I would never ignore your words, would never patronize your pain, would never tell you to calm down.
Something inside of me has been broken ever since that day. The day that I realized that my big brother wasn't always the good guy. Some days, he's the villain. Most days, he's part of the problem.
I will always love you. You have been with me since my first breathe, and I'll be ****** if you're not there for my last. I will always listen, always hold you, always love you, always be here for you. But the one thing I refuse to do is dilute my anger for you. I will not sugarcoat my oppression, will not sweep away my sadness. I will not calm down.
And maybe, with you by my side, we could make things be okay.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
I see a flash
A sight to behold
The work of an immortal sculptor
Walking straight in elegant pride
Worth of a princess of the sun
Firmly transfixed in her twelve
Moving into the emptiness of an Invalid society
Her innocence screaming
In an unchallenged clarity
And only twelve moons
The framework of her modelling salivates
Wolves in men
Who's been exposed to the virus
Emerging from the bushland of their desires
To seek their vengeance in a fanatical hatred
And poor me the Princess
With the *** Lunacy roaming the streets
Sanity of abstinence is the greatest challenge.
Swung from poverty to adolescence
A pendulum of fates
Hunger at home for the family
And her homestead a moonscape of desolation.
The two Hundred shillings does the trick
She trades out her innocence
And virginity too- a girl's pride
And alongside the legal tender comes the virus
The minute Monster
Savoring a society of huge minds.
There is the tuberculosis
In a hospital ward
Full of undug graves and shrines unnamed
Drawn into the vacuum of her fate
Eyes wide open in dismal finality
The princess
Lie in freeze frame of death
A pyramid of events
Molded out of her last several terrible seconds
Lamentation for the society
A dull eulogy
For our girls.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
Like mourning bells ringing,
I woke to hear trumpets playing taps,
Next to a funeral casket.
I observed quietly,
With some foreign melodies filling the void between my temples.
Showing disregard out of mere respect,
Really.
Not for myself,
Certainly.
For I was as dead as the corpse I was grieving.
Falling into my fog again, screaming the names of ex-lovers
Over and over and over.
Needing infatuation
On uneven planes of judgment,
As if I were seeking insight from an invalid.
But there was a time when I lacked even more
Than at that loathsomely lonesome moment.
And it went slithering on inside of the void
Like some ******* disease that was ripping the holy living **** out of my heart.
Seeing the casket lower
Under a cascade of flowers,
My temples went silent,
The melodies burned away like thousands of distant cinders,
And their voices occupied the void, as if my mind was their soapbox.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
When words fail,
I love.
When actions are invalid,
I am able.
Where limitations scar,
I dare go forth.
Where the norms go to die,
I am found.
I am kept.
I am alive.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
you'll never know how it feels
to be a potato being fried
being mixed with salt or cheese powder
as people eat and digest you in their stomach
you'll never know how it feels
to be a teddy bear being hugged
or punched at because of its softness
since it has no life so you just kept doing it
you'll never know how it feels
to be the fat kid in your class
because you were popular
and everyone admired the pretty ones
you'll never know how it feels
to be gay as people tear you apart
because you're a disgrace
and the bible told you you're invalid
you'll never know how it feels
to be black because your skin is clear
and they never tried to **** you
because of your race and skin color
you'll never know how it feels
to be vincent van gogh as he tried
to poison himself by eating yellow paint
and drinking turpentine
you'll never know how it feels
to be a **** victim
whether you're a man or a woman
because you kept thrusting and it hurt
you'll never know how it feels
to be in heaven or hell
because you're dead
and you're starting somewhere ahead
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
Solid black lines
Framed the naked lives
Of a million loved ones
Belittled and turned lame
Another year passes
So fast one can't think
Standing on the brink
Of a thousand other free passes
Lives stop short
As another speeding boat
With faces frozen in fear
And mother's choosing invalid rear
Roaring typhoons of child-like playtime
Makes millionaires question their ethics
Nature whistles and human ears
Are forced to beckon and listen
Messages sent from a void of eternity
Plans made, destroyed all in the blink of an eye
A poet dies and another is born
To inscribe in the air the eye of a coming storm
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
I twist and turn,
Suffle in my
Hospital bed.
The drum of
The dextrose drops,
Plays as the background
For my despondent lulluby.
Clickering and clackering;
The white feet
On the frozen
Hospital floor
Feature the vocals
Of the weeping relatives
I do not know.
A chorus
Of morose songs
That bellow
From the valley
Of faded faces
Dulls the senses
Of the patients
In the ICU.
Doctors wearing
White garbs
With darkened eyes
Whisper to each other
Like a cult gathering
With prayers
And curses
On their lips.
They appear
To me
Like snakes
On the tree
Throwing sins
And travesties
To the
Invalid saints.
I, fight fervently
Against sleep.
Although almost
Twenty-four,
Am a child
Again.
A child who
Detests sleep
Like the plague
That took me.
In this hospital bed
I start my vigil;
A pilgrim to zion
Daunted by
The task before him.
Beset on all sides
By treasures
And trinkets
That would
Want him stray.
My eyes serve
As the lamp
To which
My body,
A servant,
Keeps alight.
In wait
For the return
Of the master.
An encounter
To rekindle
The bond
In childhood.
A chance
To decide
Which fashion
It will end.
So eyes,
Stay alight,
For your oil
Will only
Last one night;
Keep the fight.
Despondency
May fill these
Final moments
But at the moment
Of the master's
Return
The chorus
Of faded faces
Will turn into
Choirs of angels
And there;
Sleep.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
I am not a difficult child.
You are not a difficult mother.
But,
sometimes we have things to say
and
sometimes we say nothing at all.
This,
I suppose is where we are difficult.
Because being human is difficult.
I cannot imagine why so many years ago
you chose to have us. Not because I think
you do not love us, I know you do, but
because of the sorrow my sleep brings to you
on the Sunday mornings I sleep in. Love,
I imagine, is returning from church and
still bringing bread to those who wish not to
consume it in any meaningful sense at all,
or, if consumed, to satisfy hungers so basic
you marvel at what that converted energy
is used for. I have failed still to explain that
I pray in different and marvellous ways that
I don't think are invalid but will still hurt you
nonetheless. This is part of growing up.
There are many dances that you and my
grandmother have surely danced that I
do not have the rhythm for, but there
are many dances that you and her and I
have that are the same, just as in the Old
Testament there are so many prayers and
blessings and cursings and legacies passed on
from one child to another to another child.
During these passing-ons there are surely
missteps
where some son is bound to step on some mother's
left foot as the rhythms change on time's dancefloor.
There are many examples of this that exist
that don't need to be said. It is all the same.
It is all different. I have pointed these things out
before. Before I finish, let me point out
that when I point out these things
after laughing it is not because
I am making fun of you, but only because
I love you enough to point out the seriousness
of everything in this world with a smile on my face.
How else could I possibly repay that great push
you gave all those years ago
to allow this poem to breathe in this form?
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
I see it
It's on their faces
All of 'em
This shadow
Like some sort of indifference
Built out of hurt and pain and loneliness
Like they're so tired of fighting that they just gave up
"This is reality" they say
Yea, I see it
Don't think you can fool me
And there's a lot I could say
You know, to them, to myself, or to God
A lot of words that attempt to heal
A lot of prayers that attempt to reveal
A lot of...wrestling...that attempts to understand the brokenness of our condition and how God fits into all of it
But lately I've only been able to think of one thing
One single question that wells up inside whenever I begin to feel overwhelmed by the comprehension of the depth to which you have sunk your teeth
How dare you?
I see her
She's laying it all before me
Her heart
Her emotions
All her past
All her brokenness
Her father who used to chase her all over the house
Call her all sorts of horrible names
Totally RUINING her sense of self worth!
And now, she doesn't know what to believe or what to say or how to say it or what to pray or what to do or what to choose or how to love or when to love or if to love at all and all I can say is
How dare you?
Are you not aware?
And I see him
He's caught up in himself
So misguided by the failures of those involved in his life that he built a wall TEN MILES THICK around his heart, locked it, swallowed the key and never looked back cuz he's so **** sure there's nothin' left to see and all I can say is
How dare you?
Do you not know?
Oh and I see him
Sitting right across from me all full of lies and blasphemy
The things he says only ever amounting to full blown hypocrisy
I see him
So full of anger, hatred and hurt that I don't even know where to begin
The web is so thick it's BLACK
And you say it's hopeless, and I feel helpless, and all I can say is
How dare you?
Can you not see?
Oh, and I FEEL it!
That voice!
Insipid and subtle
So confident and slithering and leaving no room for rebuttal
Give UP it says
You're not capable and they're not worth it!
Your faith is invalid cuz it contradicts all the others
Your heart is too filthy and your soul is too shredded!
You're gonna fail! Because you always fail you failing, miserable failure!
And all I can say is
How dare you?
Do you not know?
Can you not see?
Are you not aware?
Get to tremblin', beast.
For we are the children of the living God.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
*These poetic issues are full of antithesis
consistently random at best
no means yes to friendly enemies
personal business is as public opinion
it's all pretty badass, now and then...
an adult child speaks invalid relevance
the big baby in a dark comedy
mild enthusiasm of a life denied,
constant ambivalence of brief speeches
this chilling fever has risen in acute apathy
of confirmed rumors by current history
equally diverse in the same difference
whilst the walking dead, accept rejection
burning cold in their blind sight
sigh to a clearly ambiguous sad smiley,
yet everyone generalizes a beautiful disaster,
odds are even, my head is seriously insane
living deceased what a crime, the future is today
honestly kidding*...No comment
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Dear Wish Granting Factory
I know you said you are not the world
But for a minute,
Can you be?
Dear Wish Granting Factory
You asked me what I would wish for
If you existed
Right now, in this moment, I believe
You exist
What do I wish for?
Oh, Wish Granting Factory
I wish to know the sensation of feet slapping against pavement and lungs burning so bad that you feel you are going to faint
I wish to know that the muscles in my fingers will not fail me when I spread them and cross my arms over to make the Nerdfighter gang sign
I wish to know what it is like to look at myself in the mirror and think
I like the way I look
Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to see myself clearly through the eyes of someone
That Someone Who will one day look at me like I am the most beautiful thing in existence
I wish to know that that love exists and it is not just a figment of my imagination
Dear Wish Granting Factory
Do William Darcys really exist?
If so, please point me in that direction so I can find him
Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to make a difference in this society in which I am the minority
That my voice may be heard loudly and clearly even though it trembles
That my story be told truthfully and I, a person, a human being with feelings and emotions and thoughts that are not invalid because I have a disability and are therefore “inept” am represented as I see myself
A strong, confident, young girl who is living her life the way she wants to see it and nothing will hold me back.
Disabilities do not define me now, nor will they ever
Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to live to see the day when I meet my birth mother and face her
As a stranger, though her daughter
And tell her these words
I love you
I forgive you
I missed knowing you
Dear Wish Granting Factory
Sincerely,
Z
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
umbrae
for Genevieve
your prayers include a terrible notebook, an invalid friend, and a man believing separately that we are here to place turtles upright. when you walk into the ocean you walk into the ocean on your hands. you do this to protect your knees. many think you are magnificent and these many you are on the verge of telling about the Saturdays that bore you and about the spider you repeatedly squash. the resurrected spider that is not a gift. if you could you’d give your youngest son a woman he could either swim through or swoon inside. a woman who could put him to sleep and rock in a chair the boat of her belly so untroubled to be thinking twice about twins. you’d be sad, or sleepy, and get to choose.
before I go to war
the dark readies in the oven.
my father washes with a wet sock a knee exposed.
my mother
wears one dry sock which she removes
and makes into a puppet. or an oven mitt.
both
silence the hand.
idolatry
a red wheelbarrow, maybe-
but not
so much
depends
on a poem
about it
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 5:27 PM UTC
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true,
She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear.
She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour.
Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She stares into her vanity, vainly she catches my gaze,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour,
Her smile sings Frere Jacques, her lips wet with French kisses.
She leaves for work, I stretch for the package of Reds, our vice in my hand,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
Suddenly an invalid, blind, holding two cigarettes for just one lonesome man,
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:35 AM UTC
Beside the window sits chirping
Chirping
Chirping
Birds! I'm trying to write. DBQ... FRQ..... Fml...
Starting-
passing by the sun hides behind the top of the sky
Noon- I'm trapped
Black
white
Colorless ideas and sights
"Opinions" used to persuade the guard to mark down you did all right in your studies
Adolescents- slaves to your presence
Obey the clock
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
Tick
"talk" speak your mind as long as I agree
God forbid,
My mind wanders
Far away lands,
Flowers unsold
People oh so bold
Love un-withhold
Stories untold
Take hold!
Wake up!
Absorb this!
My soul is invalid...as I am a slave to sick, adolescent oppression
Education is just memorization.
.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
that once you give something, it's yours to rip from them
that the love you have must come at the expense of the people around you
that every conflict must be met with loud noises and anger
that being alone is a dangerous thing
that being alone is the only safe place
that to feel comfortable with someone, you have to assert your dominance
that you can never feel comfortable
that to ask a question means there's something wrong with you
that my opinions mean nothing and I am never right
that if I'm upset, it's not their fault but mine
that no matter what the situation is, my feelings are invalid
that happiness or sadness has more to do with sleep than choice
that 'genetics' give people an excuse to be ********
that if someone's going through a hard time, they're allowed to **** up their children, but apparently the children's hard time doesn't matter
that a child is less of a person because they are a child
that only your own schedule is important and other people are not to be thought of
that nothing is really private
that I never want to be a parent
and you know what's ****** up about all this? that my friends are going home to verbally and emotionally abusive households, that at least four of my closest friends have panic attacks on a regular basis because of their parents, and the whole world can only just laugh and shake their head and say 'ah teenagers am I right?' I'm sick of adults normalizing pain for an entire age group when they are the ones that cause it. I'm sick of my parents being the only negative thing in my life, and in other people's lives. I'm sick of being on lock and key for no reason and being afraid to say anything because they might jump down my throat. I'm sick of seeing my best friend cry and I'm sick of looking at her father. I'm sick of watching my parents kiss each other and then curse at me for walking the dog ten seconds later than they wanted. I'm sick of getting pages of text messages from people who feel so broken and alone that they have no one else to turn to. I'm sick of it.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 7:31 PM UTC
A trinity of three styles one man no religion one morning over a lifetime
Temporary (we tat too)
Temporary love
has no precision definition
so if I say
love you forever,
as I do,
know know
just know
this particular
phrase
is temporary,
unique and forgivable
as temporary
as our permanent tattoo,
the one embellishing you,
the one marking me,
the two hearts tat
that means
we are a
tat two
If you begin a poem,
a love, a tat
with temporary,
usually, but not always,
you have already failed
See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/if-you-begin-a-poem-with-i/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Invalidation
my living bones, twisted.
my words, slurred,
disfigured with a panache,
that makes the mirror
turn away, ashamed
invalid. in valid.
I have been invalidated,
I spit at your too late heroics,
unwanted.
I spit at myself,
for missing the moment,
when choice was mine
I would have self-destructed, freely,
reborn in an act of self-validation,
be my own living will,
if only I had not been enslaved to my
**********
Fear
invalidation, the Cain mark of every failed man
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bootyoir
three day weekend has commenced.
it's con-occlusion
now in rapid descent
mini-vacation, maxi-sensation.
the only question remaining,
present but debated,
as yet undecided,
whose turn is it
to answer
the doorbell,
when the delivery guy
brings our break~fast
for it is forbidden,
a transgress,
to egress
from the bootyoir,
except for the
call of nature,
and naturally,
I am calling
you,
comeback comeback
hungry time
it's time we
co-authored some
bootyoir poetry
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC