"isolates" poems
“only” the lonely know (my special sign)
{=}
an incurable silence
the meaningless, wasted touch of a hand,
attached, directed by them from them
to them
a failed reassurance
a classroom, a stadium, cornfield or grove,
so many nutted fallen solitaries fallen to rot
midst a globe of trillions never noticed,
never missed
the silly conceptual that the lonely,
special unique, blessed with a curse,
a specialist status, “only” they afflicted;
with a ken that isolates and yet feels elevated -
oh! I am special
show me one, just one, human who doesn’t truly believe,
they are the onliest loneliest and you will vision
each and every
lonely person who
secret sighs and whose first thoughts are only:
god spare me one more day of being,
fearful of achieving
my very own knowing,
in the invisible place,
the incurable silence award,
reward of another purple heart,
“only” the lonely service ribbon,
my Cain marker
~my special sign~
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)
<•>
familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence
but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy
so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love
what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
compote
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed
now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...
<•>
*I,
but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:
selvage
late middle English, from self + edge
how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”
the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin
all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head
a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape*
all daring you to say
I could
love
it here
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Morality isolates and fenders bend.
Circumference learns, “half-way” but fails to take the name
“Radius,”
And when she lay a meter nigh
With child, my child;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
Curse my iron fist and rusts the middle knuckle,
When another weeps, not for I, not for you but the gods assumed,
“Heaven,”
And 3 floors above my own;
Tucked lies the pain, regret fills fetal;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
So comes the autumn, the fire prior, “Styx,”
Upon borders that could only separate, “fatherhood,” so partitioned,
“Winter,”
And 3 floors below her own –
A pillar wrought persistence and abandoned, my hedonism;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of
but I can't be tied to those forever
so people forgive and forget
I try to forget but still feel bad
and I know there are still sore subjects
that I should be sensitive about.
Scrolling through Reddit I see a post
of Māori students at an airport
greeting their returning teacher
with a traditional Māori war dance
which was an admittedly sweet gesture
but something didn't sit right with me.
I wondered why the students greeting their teacher
had to do so through a display of militaristic nationalism
I wondered if that was the last dance the Moriori people saw
before the Māori genocided them for their resources
I wondered if the Māori danced like that
as they ***** murdered, and cannibalized the Moriori.
Wondering all of this made me ask myself:
Why did they have to greet their teacher like that?
The students wanted to make a big gesture
which dancing is perfect for
but dancing can also be vulnerable and embarrassing
because people may mock how you express yourself
but strangers at the airport are less likely to laugh at you
if you're doing a synchronized dance with a group of people
and the dancing is recognizably tied to national identity
because then it's a culturally rich dance
you're a xenophobe for laughing at
and that's what nationalism is:
strength in numbers and a readymade identity
in lieu of an individual personality
oftentimes for the sake of pistanthrophobia.
So as I read the circlejerking comments on the post
I wondered what the difference is between
a Māori war dance and a **** salute
I guess the Māori people have experienced
more oppression than Nazis
but nationalism is nationalism
and those who have oppressed are oppressors
and many who are oppressed would gladly
be oppressors given the chance.
Nationalism isn't healthy for culture
and often isolates people from other cultures
that are all combining due to globalization
which people fight to preserve their little dances and costumes
so we can stay in eternal conflict over delusions of supremacy
when the only nationality should be a global one.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 8:41 PM UTC
Each and every form of art
isolates me from reality.
© Matthew Harlovic
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
Whem you see a obstacle you can wait for it to go or do something drastic the fact that someone like was born with a crap hand does not mean something great can happen truth is I can hide and watch and wait but I choose to live and overcome that obstacle a Prievous year I had a flaw of love lorn as I will always care for her but I may found something so I thought I was hurt I radiated disappointment in my eyes but hey I like a challenge I may have become that guy who's a loner a guy who isolates himself from others but I tell you something what I want I will get this time what's gonna stop me a another fellow a judgemental authority figure all I have to say is obstacles are meant to be smashed
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
i am free like the stars and the heavens that make me be..
i am free like the blackness of night that make me see.. i am free..
i am free like the words that swim to become poems..
i am free like those people who learn to love and live in homes.. i am free..
i am free to feel and to think like those mentals who enjoi seeing shrinks..
i am free to be in pain with nothing much to gain.. i am free..
i am free to live and love again..
like the burdens that i carry knows no end.. i am free just to be.. just to be.. i am free..
i am free like when winds touch the seas to create waves..
i am free to live inside crumbling walls and live inside caves.. i am free..
i am free to write and to spit on pens and papers..
used to create isolates spaces and lie on craters.. i am free..
i am free just to be who i am.. and who i am is not as free as i want to be..
pauldeeeeee
5march2011
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 6:19 PM UTC
Imperfections
The kindest evidence the savior passed was the marks he bestowed in the most gentile articulation in this
His wise choices matched imperfection to our needs. One of the most telling attributes of women can be
Her hands but what if they are slightly marred the grace only flows to a deeper level quickness is
Replaced by deliberate action slower more thoughtful and profound a touch placed with this kind of
Feeling goes to a measure instantly felt it is not just the ordinary but a thing of force that unravels
Trouble mysteriously it finds the hidden knots looses them allows love to flow wide and full. Perhaps a
Man no longer strides with a power that has an assurance maybe he is depended on a stick for support
Where power is diffused it only changes channels it makes the heart stronger the eyes feel it too
Humanity in others is recessed the blunder the self efficiency drains from boisterous streams into calm
Assessment a flow that harnesses possibility not vain bravado that can at times wound those who are
Weaker and that are struggling. If times try men’s souls then imperfection can be a clarion call the
Placement of virtue at the lead where sometimes pride is the driving force this writing came from seeing
A woman walking in a sunny scene and she had a blotchy spot on her arm others could observe this and
Be to one degree or another repulsed but to the man who loves her it is a special calling card it
Touches makes the forces revel in a display that sets her apart from all others an instrument of sound
That separates from the den isolates carries a marker that generates tenderness, esteem, and honor
Thou art the tune and sound of a masterful violin play nothing else in my presence nothing else will do
Your imperfections makes another whole don’t ever fret over your special make up it is the breath and
The visitation of the divine in the human form boldly brushed in the shadow perfected by sun light.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
Pushes and pulls.
Isolates and attaches.
Separates and unites.
A drug problem it is not.
A substance issue never cured.
A relationship that destructs.
A heart problem.
A relationship problem.
A self-esteem problem.
Heal the heart.
Repair the wound.
Build your self-esteem.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
The kindest evidence the savior passed was the marks he bestowed in the most gentile articulation in this
His wise choices matched imperfection to our needs. One of the most telling attributes of women can be
Her hands but what if they are slightly marred the grace only flows to a deeper level quickness is
Replaced by deliberate action slower more thoughtful and profound a touch placed with this kind of
Feeling goes to a measure instantly felt it is not just the ordinary but a thing of force that unravels
Trouble mysteriously it finds the hidden knots looses them allows love to flow wide and full. Perhaps a
Man no longer strides with a power that has an assurance maybe he is depended on a stick for support
Where power is diffused it only changes channels it makes the heart stronger the eyes feel it too
Humanity in others is recessed the blunder the self efficiency drains from boisterous streams into calm
Assessment a flow that harnesses possibility not vain bravado that can at times wound those who are
Weaker and that are struggling. If times try men’s souls then imperfection can be a clarion call the
Placement of virtue at the lead where sometimes pride is the driving force this writing came from seeing
A woman walking in a sunny scene and she had a blotchy spot on her arm others could observe this and
Be to one degree or another repulsed but to the man who loves her it is a special calling card it
Touches makes the forces revel in a display that sets her apart from all others an instrument of sound
That separates from the den isolates carries a marker that generates tenderness, esteem, and honor
Thou art the tune and sound of a masterful violin play nothing else in my presence nothing else will do
Your imperfections makes another whole don’t ever fret over your special make up it is the breath and
The visitation of the divine in the human form boldly brushed in the shadow perfected by sun light.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
Plus thirty in scorching sunshine at noon
Heat insulation isolates me from feeling
Warm sensation fries me from your touch
And a contrasting black emptiness inside
Is a distant sort of closeness for me now.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
Numb feels ineptly
Nobody
Nothing
Empty.
Numb has a feeble spirit
Numb is numbing
Numb
******* needy
Numb
It runs swiftly
Flows freely
Numb
approaches the needy
Ever so quickly.
It thinks of him
And deprives me
Of breathing
Numb watches.
Stares.
It separates me, isolates.
Numb never cared.
Makes the bleak confiscate
Everything I hate
It thinks of him
And unnerves my limbs
Numb will find it
I cannot quit
The nowhere is near
Numb brings it here
Watching.
Sickly it's ever wanting
So enchanting
Why is It still alive?
Numb will realise
He must die
For me to be alive
Numb unfolds
Clamour of a dormant soul
The pleads
The need
Numb ever succeeds
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
Let us meet there,
let us witness the beauty itself,
Simplicity in the purest form
cherish these moments for infinity.
Where the sky kisses the earth,
where the sun gives birth to sunshine,
where eveything seems meaningless,
insignificant.
Let us meet there,
let us be bold, and feel everything so deeply,
realize that we are one with it,
hold hands and unite in these moments of infinity.
Break through the limits, push our selves towards our true being,
rejoyce, dance, and acknowledge
that we are the creators.
We are the light that shines through,
the darkness that isolates us from the truth,
the truth that gives wings to our souls.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
You know the saying "misery loves company"? Well I disagree. Misery isolates. Misery isolates itself in the vague darkness of aganizing memories and broken dreams. Misery is a cold being, comforting to some, and a burden for others. It comes to you when you have found all the peices. It acts like a solvent and dissolves the glue that holds your life together. It breaks apart friendships and dissasembles the "good life" you once thought you had. The feeling of misery is like a cold shiver down your spine, it makes its presence known. The face of misery it that of a nightmsre that wakes you up at night with cold sweats. I know the face of misery, and it knows me.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
there is a sense of fluency
in his visual metamorphoses
framed in a diaphanous red
that isolates a consciousness
yet at the same time allows a journey
to ultimate extremes
of perfected enhancement
of the higher realization
of unfulfilling limitations
he knows that he can never be free
like a name in an address book
written in blue ceramics
that provides the impulse
to sensitizing thought
to the silence that walls him in
spiraling back in second hand decibels
overloaded with the complex distribution
of metabolic need
forms contradictory impulses
an index of vulnerable and invulnerability
like the familiar dissimilarity in his eyes
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
one more for Pradip...
"Poems...are never short or long, they're only more. Thanks Nat for ever filling the less."
firing up the poem kiln,
this intriguing provocation
insistent of deserved consideration,
after all,
it is thy stories that these days inspire,
my own stories are relentless
grey, old, cold, and to my eyes,
coded repetitious...
neither a chaster or a chastiser,
(You could look it up!)
confessing readily to sinning against humanity
by ecrivezing poems of length considerable,
the Mexicano from Indiano
releases a shotgun blast
to all those whose attention spans last,
to ten words or a single stanza...no more...
but this not the matter of import,
no, no, it is the
more and the less
that makes poetry the best,
no matter the length or the heft...
in each of us
there is a more and a less,
in cycles individual that are not bound to
tides, weather, or any effect natural,
but product of our own amber waves
of chemical imbalances and mental auras...
all my days have I rode waves of
well hid hills of mania *** depression,
contented moments surrounded and cosseted
by wails of worry, sorrel colored sorrows,
making the scientists amazed at the correlation
of the macro and the mini,
the precision of my indecision...
in sixty seconds, in sixty days, in sixty years,
have I battered and battled the disequilibrium
of more and less,
disallowing a pilloried intervention,
will likely do so until
that day when my pen
has bled its last...
this theme haunts,
for but a day ago,
a bus poem was blurted out,
that concluded thusly:
***to survive,
to justify,
to mediate
between these un-counterbalanced weights,
I write poetry***
here I am stunned that Pradip
with but a handful of seeds,
exactly isolates the genetic implanted notion
that I struggle to define,
knowing only that my poetry fills my less,
when the all the rest is just
another fine mess
we fill the less with our wit,
we top off our souls with writs,
we are more for having scribed,
one read or ten thousand,
it mater matters knot!
look upon the pages endlessly bearing
the ephemeral heavy-handed weight full of well crafted words,
the good, the plenty,
the sad, the sorry,
the trite and cranky,
those misted musty,
the light and the careful,
the bad and merely awful,
even the drip of torrential love stories gone dry
what matters not
any of this over sighted analytics,
each and all and everyone
a success,
for each poem makes someone's less lessened,
and someone's more, more,
and by this
ever filling the less...
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
a veil of ice
across my soul
so I control
how much you know
a smooth façade
a cool veneer
that isolates me
from my fear
I am afraid
when you get close
can you see into me?
almost
if you are warm
the ice will break
and take you
to the strangest place
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 5:03 AM UTC
To the person who's sexually attracted to children
but has never acted upon that attraction:
Thank you
it's not always easy doing the right thing
and I understand the stigmatization you face
in a society where advocating killing you is socially encouraged
for the forced productions in the privacy of your mind
usually stemming from traumatic childhood abuse
but don't let them stop you from getting help
for the misery and frustration associated with
constantly denying one's ****** urges
for the sake of others.
Nobody is born an angel or a demon
walking along we pick up horns or halos midstride
often confusing one for the other
often trading one for the other
often naming one for the other
until heavenly hellspawns
attack with horned halos.
To the person who perpetuates the stigma against those people
through edgy internet posts and comments
like it's some sort of controversial sentiment
that isolates those people until they crack
usually just so you can virtue signal militancy
so you can feel good about yourself through persecuting others:
**** you.
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 5:17 AM UTC
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
a radius the length of single arm
that isolates my soul from all i see
i am an island in the midst of sea
to separate my soul from any harm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
i'm buffered from the hordes rejecting me
it might be called a gift, a special charm
that isolates my soul from all i see
my blessing is a curse that's spat on me
for when I seek another's soul as warm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
and where I'd like to go I cannot be
my buffer zone's a barren empty farm
that isolates my soul from all i see
there once were people dancing 'round with me
yet something shooed away the loving swarm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
that isolates my soul from all i see
(C)2008, Christos Rigakos
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:11 AM UTC
There's this girl
She's like a candle
trying her best to lit her day
trying her best to warm the smiles
But she just had enough
The fire extinguishes
by the tears from her eyes
pools of sadness,sorrows,grievance
that she kept for years
that she always fears.
Repeating every song she hears
along with memories and tears
they penetrate her heart
left scars,forever.
It can't be cured by laughter
It can't be cured by cheers
It can't be cured by dollars
It can't be cured by herself
she needs years to fix it back
Worthless she feels,worth it they said.
It's hard for her to explain
even harder for them to understand
she doesn't wants friends
she isolates from them
but they're too kind to be left
so she continues the game.
She tries to see how long she can stands
how long she can survives
with faking smiles and laughs
This is too much.
She swallows everything
judgmental words suicide thoughts
for the sake to gain something
then she realizes the game was
nothing.
Nobody said it was easy
Nobody said it was fun
feels like the tears
make her awoken from the
reality that will never be pleased.
a.b
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
I never expected to be hit with the
"Who are you?"
While filling out a job application
for a Lush Cosmetics department store
Seriously though,who am I?
I mean, I'm just Alyssa
Alyssa is just too
human
You know, the type to complain about the sea of heart broken poets while browsing on poetry sites
But for some reason finds herself ranting about all the oblivious people on instagram, whose most traumatic experience was probably a paper cut
She's a weakling compared to the elders at home
Yet sick of the "how do you do it" remarks from colleagues and friends
She isolates herself inside her house and she can feel the crushing sensation named depression
But after lunch with Devon, she begins to fantasize about how her eyes light up when she hears that sound from the heavens;
**DING ****
Hot digitty dog it's uber eats!
She'll never have to leave her house for McDonald's ever again!
She has no idea what she's doing with her life, and sometimes wishes someone could just come to her rescue
But god forbid you attack her ego by bringing up her goals and achievements
Best believe she will make you fall in love- trust me she loved you too (at some point)
But her favourite things about you slowly became the things she cringed the most at
You're laugh was cute and ***** but now for some reason
she refrains from telling you jokes
She's constantly changing
Not because she's unhappy with who she is
She has yet to finish creating Alyssa with each passing day
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
Minus ten in blinding blizzard at midnight
Snow insulation isolates me from feeling
Cold sensation freezes me from your touch
And a contrasting black emptiness inside
Is a deeper sort of empty for me now.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
The flicker of a broken bulb,
And her eyes repeat the rhythm.
They say she's senseless.
She pauses to inhale,
Dust clogs her nostrils,
The remains of decaying books.
She sits in the dim corner,
The cubicle isolates her on 3 sides.
She comes here to ride the waves of voices.
The swells of murmurs grow,
She didn’t bring a life preserver.
It doesn’t matter.
Her eyes show the rock inside.
She’s already sunk.
The murmur breaks close to the corner.
It never touches the girl.
It never does.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 11:28 PM UTC
You're breath on my neck,
It replays in my head everyday.
Your whispers, they taunt me.
Your heart lies.
The softness and clarity of your lips on my chest,
Leave me restlesss,
Aching for more.
To be a fool
Or to be sane,
That is the question.
Our bodys intertwind,
But to afriad to truly touch.
The heart frolics with the mind ,
Leaving both fragil,
Weak.
To be a fool,
That's the question.
The breath which you leak, isolates my heart,
And manipluates my mind,
To foolishness.
To be a fool,
A fool to love you.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC