"jittery" poems
a body filled with familiar dread
you might say my body is already dead
my head is said to be quite fretful
took moments of quietude for granted;
and now i’m constantly regretful
the restlessness of my emotions
address my state of mind
and the distressed thoughts run around my head like guerrilas
they know they are running out of time
my jittery heart runs rampant
like a broken clock
and my only wish is for all of this to stop
the apprehension creates a detonation
a complete eradication of my elation
because my body is filled with familiar dread
and my body feels like it’s already dead
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
I don't know how I feel
Lost in my whirlpool of thoughts
It seems odd, what I am battling
Insecure about my every move
Living in a world with little confidence
Am I not being sincere?
Knowing the motives behind each action
Makes me all the more annoyed
I suppose its different values
And how I am to follow
But pride stops me from moving
I just don't wanna be pulled at the collar
I hoped for some respect
Not to be treated invisible
Be be treated with patience and allowed to make mistakes
Isn't that how I am to be?
I really don't know
Jittery and paranoid
Why can't they be direct
Feeling lost and insecure is all that I can say
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Earthquake Poem
3/5/2014
What do you suppose an earthquake does?
Sure, there are the shakes and scares,
Seismic shifts accompanied by tectonic tears.
But ditch this global perspective,
Figure out what rips those ripples, detective.
Let’s see you pound at the ground.
Hit it hard, ‘til you hear a heavy sound.
Is that enough to fissure some asphalt?
Tell me, could you bring this spinning planet to a sudden halt?
I can’t say for sure, what an Earth-quake does.
Though I’ve been a victim,
Earth isn’t where my quake was.
An Earth-less earthquake,
On a planet whose name I’ve learned to forsake.
Wynn’s world wandered ‘round someone else’s orbit:
Drawn to its gravity like grapes grow on a vine;
Brightened by its solar system’s shining smile, so divine;
Emotional tides tugged in and out;
Guided by its mysterious moon’s midnight meandering about.
That’s right – an orbit with its own time flow.
Time that could stomp its heels and steal a spotlight,
Time that could manipulate a moment like jello, mayonnaise, or some other squishy substance,
Time that could crash course, while standing still,
Time that could reveal something you never knew.
What do you suppose an earthquake does?
A quake could be anything that makes you shake.
Think of quaking in fear, as an unknown figure draws near.
Think of a jittery heart, that’s been bit by a bullet.
Internal tears,
think of organs bleeding,
Think of needing,
solid ground,
but falling and time keeps stalling.
When a quiet little quiver promises to deliver,
its slight shock signal straight through the middle.
When a molten magma core fizzes its manic madness,
like a shaken soda.
When an epic eruption carries out its upward excelsior,
Rejecting the spinning without a stop.
Oh, the mountains will tumble,
The hills and valleys, they’ll crumble,
And gurgle in the raging rivers’ rumble,
As volcanoes churn out violent bubbles,
Stirring up all kinds of troubles,
For one person’s personal planet.
For one person’s personal planet,
These violent forces of nature can’t compare to an Earth-quake,
When the ground you stand on begins to break,
When you realize your senseless stability is fake.
When that little quake knocks your Earth awake,
It’s reality coming alive to take, and take, and take,
Because for love, you put everything at stake.
What do you suppose an earthquake does?
I’ll tell you – it leaves a wrecked world with a cracked core and scorched surroundings.
Just because.
Just because, love on Earth always comes with a quiet little quake.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Malcom was fed 16 bullets because of his. A slug kissed the jaw of King Jr. and silenced him forever. Gandhi shriveled like snakeskin. Joan of Arc became Joan of Ash- so you can understand why Melle Mel was jittery scribbling it all down, on a napkin, at Lucy's Noodle Shop in Harlem. Sweat poured into his green tea. He thought Jesus hanging from the dull wood. Heard about the poet Lorca under an olive tree, shot in the back. Everyone has felt this way through, he thought, never could he have imagined what would happen when he pressed his thumbprint into vinyl. Hip-Hop was still a tadpole. The DJ had just learned to scratch a record and make sounds no ear had never conjugated. How was he to know Tupac and Biggie would follow his lead and get plugged with lead? So he wrote it down, in big curling letters, emphatic: DON'T PUSH ME
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
Big red gnomes
stomp and clomp,
shaking me up inside.
Rumble,
Tumble,
Bumble
they go;
making me all jittery inside.
Fists
want to fly,
Words
want to scream,
and
Angry Red Gnomes
want to win.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
Chirp chirp
A sparrow hops and flitters
Jumps and flutters
From branch
To branch
To wire
Lining up with all her friends
Waiting for some skybus to take them away
Twitter and chortling about the world below
Silly humans in their lucid bubbles of
Space
Squirrels chattering and cussing from the trees
Thieving birdseeds and peaches
Meanwhile the sparrow bounces on the wire
Jittery and full of energy
Twitching and flicking her feathers and tail
Boune bounce hop
Fidget and jump on straw thin legs
And then whoosh
All leave at once
Their invisible skytrain pulling away as fast as it comes
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge
I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to
** ** **
Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more
We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles
The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown
** ** **
Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
I'm jittery as ****
just plain out of luck.
Wishing I could duck
out and take just one drag.
Surely, that wouldn't be so bad.
I'm going a tad mad.
My will has never been ironclad.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
if words are food for the mind,
then here is a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then here is why i'm so pained.
abandoned, abhorrent
abnormal, absent
abstract, abuse
addicted, anxious
betray, bitterly
blank, blasphemy
bloodless, breakdown
breathless, brutal
captive, casually
catastrophe, cautiously
change, cigarettes
crucial, clueless
damaged, dangerous
deadly, disastrous
disheartened, disconcerting
dramatic, dreading
eager, eccentric
ecstasy, eerie
effete, effortless
embittered, excess
faded, failure
faintly, fallacy
faltering, fatally
fearfully, finally
garbage, gawky
gibberish, gloomy
gone, goodbye
graphic, gratify
hallucinate, harshly
hazy, heartless
hectic, helpless
hesitant, hit-and-miss
idiotic, idly
ignorant, intimacy
illogical, imaginative
infatuated, intoxicated
jealousy, jittery
journey, journal
joylessly, judicial
junk, juvenile
keen, killing
knavish, knocking
knockout, knotty
knowingly, knowledge
laborious, lacking
lame, languishing
lifeless, literature
lovelorn, lugubrious
madness, maintenance
make-believe, malaise
mean, melancholic
mellow, melodramatic
naff, naivety
nameless, naturally
nauseous, nebulous
neglected, nervous
oasis, objectionable
obliged, obliterate
oblivion, obscurity
obsolete, one-and-only
pacifist, pained
pale, panicky
paradise, paralyze
passionately, passively
raging, ranting
rationalize, raving
realistic, reasonable
rebellious, reckless
saboteur, sadness
sake, sameness
sanity, satisfactory
scar, steady
taint, tangled
tasteless, tearful
telling, temperamental
terror, theoretical
unaffected, uncanny
uncommon, unconsciously
undesirable, uneasy
unfortunate, untidy
vaguely, vanish
vanity, vanquish
versatile, vicious
violence, voracious
waiting, waking
walkout, wanting
wasteful, weary
withering, wrecking
if words are food for the mind,
then you've seen a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then no wonder i'm so pained.
-djs
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
I sensually rub pickles
on your torso.
My lust for you
is like black coffee.
Really strong with an after effect of diarrhea
I am jittery for you my dear
Let me rub this yo-yo all over your ear.
A thief broke into my house
and saw a naked grandma
so he left.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
Riding in the car
with sweaty palms
playing loud,
fast songs
Getting a bit jittery
and maybe a tad bit anxious.
Wondering when it will be
that I can get High
with you next to me.
-On my way to you,
-my drug dealer
-who only deals the finest touches
-and most esquisite caresses
My vision is getting a bit blurry
and my thoughts stray from the road
to thoughts of your face
and I get that message
that I get to see you soon
so I slow down
and take that exit off the hiway
turn around
and tell you to head my way.
You get in the car
and the smiles begin
the hand touching and knee grabbing
and its a wonder
that I can still drive
in this altered state of mind.
We speak some words
about this and that
nothing too funny
yet we laugh until our sides hurt.
Im in love with you
my drug dealer,
my ultimate healer
my mind eraser.
The chemicals start flowing
and I wonder if im spoiling the moment
with scientific physioligical thoughts
validating this thing called love.
The chemicals
that start at the brain
flow through the heart
and down to the genitals
then down through the legs
and back up to the heads
(yes, both of them)
and I can’t get over
how much we feel the same way
and how
even to this day
things have not seemed to change
Hoping I don’t ever build up
too much of a tolerance
to the chemicals you make me feel
my wonderful man,
with the drugs you deal
and all the pain you ****
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 3:26 PM UTC
I like
the sound of your laugh
and how it takes away
all the anguish of my soul
for a little while.
I like
the way you look into my eyes
even though you know
i get self conscious
I like
the way you try to make it up to me
when you push my limits
a little too far
even though i forgave you a while ago
I like
how you make me feel-
all jittery and shy
like a young girl
pretending she knows what love is
but
in the back of my mind
i can see his smile
and the way he runs his hand
through his hair.
in the back of my mind
i can see his excitement
as he shares stories with me
about his favourite things.
In the back of my mind
and late at night
i wonder how is it possible to love
two persons
with two very different personalities
at the same time.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
"It's not that bad,
I tastes good, I swear"
It was cold, and bitter, and vile
Yet I still ordered it
Every
Single
Time
Like a magical elixr
Of momentary freedom
From the wires of guilt
Welded into my neural pathways
Just enough-
To not cause suspicion
But not so much
That I'd collapse
Strong enough
To make me jittery,
Anxious, nauseated,
But still incomparable
To the unspeakable sin
Of sustenance,
So when I saw stars standing up,
Or buckled over at the knees,
And wondered why
It was even worth it?
I'd come to the same conclusion
Every
Single
Time
And it was this:
It doesn't matter anyways
Because I'll never
Be able
To stop.
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 9:49 PM UTC
you were a packaged deal
and came with a disclaimer
claiming emotionally unstable
and jittery
with minimal ability to balance
book and art and poetry
with your overactive *** drive
and unquenchable thirst for intoxication
and I kept you in mint condition
barbie
as best as I could while you kept mind
and we matched
and interlocked
and soon were inseparable
but barbie i can only keep you so long
your hair is fading
and so is the loneliness that once made me praise you
and barbie you are a burden
and are weighing on my glass display
and leaning and tipping
and are making no effort to support your own weight
i may be your plastic stand
but i am more than moral support
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
i’m fighting with gravity
to the death- until my head rests,
empty as my belly
on this false-porcelain floor-
skin waxy as laminate over
these heavy hollow bones
waiting for freedom-
liberation from this sullen casing.
i shake, manic-
blood pressure in the basement,
nauseous from diet pills and anxiety.
jittery, stare at the ceiling-
a spider, stick-limbed, teases me,
but here’s the silver lining:
no curds or whey coating
my shining insides.
i am stronger and brighter than ever
as black swims in my vision-
light-headed from malnutrition,
i wrap fingers around my wrists
to make sure i haven’t escaped my limits.
the mirror doesn’t lie, but it won’t snitch.
we’ll keep this surreptitious.
spilling my bloodred guts, my blood,
won’t make me wither,
and confessing won't save me either.
this red ribbon stays tied around my wrist.
secrets kept keep me stable
clinging to my only success,
self-confidence cellophane-wrapped
in my absence, my transparence.
the whispers don’t mean a thing.
i am frantic on a wire frame,
white noise on parade.
the ground can only hold me for so long.
i'll sprout wings from my ribcage
and float away.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
It takes little more than a kind word
To carry me through a month
To hold me up against battle
To force me, against trials, to triumph.
It takes little more than genuine praise
To burn a soul to memory
To lose all sense of proper speech
To fly unbound and freely.
And with a word comes a smile
I can't get it off my face
With a word comes gratitude
So potent my hands shake.
With a word comes a flattered feeling
That blossoms just under my ribs
With a word comes a jittery, happy panic
On which I cannot put a lid.
I laugh boisterously
I forget my usual frown
With a word I am lifted
And I will never come back down.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Wrapped round in swaddling clothes,
I saw her bright beaming face.
Lying helpless, still in a trance,
I sensed her soft soothing touch.
Warm it was when huddled tight,
Glad it was to be held close,
Pleasure it was to be lifted up,
And Heaven it was to be in her lap.
She took me in her gentle hands,
She fed me with her nourishing milk,
She made me sleep with lullabies sweet,
And kept alert on day and night.
As time slowly glided past,
I grew myself into a tiny tot.
Crawled around in sweeping haste,
Reaching out to all I could touch.
It left my mother so hardly pressed.
She never had even time to sit,
Cut down she, her afternoon nap,
Cast aside she her rest and respite.
My teething time – a real hard time!
For reasons none, I grew so irritable.
Itchy – fidgety, I cried on end,
Futile it went all her tricks to tame.
This made my mother grow jittery.
Consulted she every quack and doc,
Administered she every harmless dope,
And interceded to all divine help.
It was only a passing phase,
With consistent care, I grew to a buxom babe.
My childish pranks delighted all.
Too glad grew my mother to see me fare.
Soon I learnt to steady myself up,
The Toddler placed the first faltering step.
It was always with bated breath,
My mother watched my growing up.
She ever remained a pillar of strength,
In whom I saw a never failing friend.
She led me through the devious turns of life,
Always there to lend her helping hand.
In complex issues too hard to solve
Wise it was to seek her counsel
Sane and sound, she ever remained.
To trials of life, she never surrendered.
She taught me the quintessence of life,
She showed me the route to tread,
Her zest for life, never once cease,
Her trust in God ever on the rise
Now my mother ceases to exist,
But sure she will continue to live,
In my hearts domain, she reigns supreme.
No force on Earth can cast her out.
As I look back to days of yore,
All I wish is to conjure up the past,
To be reborn a second time,
To be my mother’s darling child!
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
Why are you acting as rabbit
when you could howl like a wolf?
You’re always hiding. Always regressing.
Never really going anywhere.
You channel these thoughts, yes. You manifest them. On a page.
On a stage. Like a smiling circus clown,
like a trapeze artist, flying, stumbling
through the realm of obscurity. A forgotten juggle. A lost tape.
It does not matter.
Why?
Why do you do these things?
Why are you so scared?
They are not grand thoughts. They are not ideas
meant to change.
They are private insights. Jittery. A look into the eyes of some scared soul.
Your poems are minutiae, insignificant details. They are
the trembling lip. They are the shaking hand. The confused daze.
They do not know who they are,
but they know that they are small.
You want to be a monolith, but you refuse to build,
you refuse to haul the black stones. You do not have the power.
You are a caricature. You are as scared as Paris,
as two-faced as Iscariot- you could kiss with passion.
You could rule with love. But you bow out. You take
responsibilities with you, and slink into the dirt you
arose from. You are clay. You are dust.
Why are you dust? You don’t have to be.
Why aren’t you angry- you should be roaring!
Why are you quiet- you should be singing, singing
with the cicadas- chirping with the birds,
howling with the wolves; you should join the tumult,
the uproar;
but you sit. You play with your toys like a petulant child
and scream when they break. That’s the only noise you ever make.
You could be a wolf. You don’t have to be the prey.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
Love was the fragrance of every flower
in this city, of celebrated gardens,
not long before,
Why i sit here, nursing my uneasiness
in this bus with out a destination board,
I don't really know,
all I hope is this:
my belief that it would take me to
it's last stop- love- would not fail,
Once there ,I know,
my redemption would be easier.
I don't see any one bound
to that destination,
not even one whose face i recognize,
night has no language, like a dumb man
i have to be contented with signs,
in this overly lit long, red bus, too sleek
for everyone here to feel happy about,
i feel the shock of change, from every side,
The city is busy shedding its old skins
and its soul, the villager and his words
that spoke of rain, crops of corn and harsh summer,
almost in a poetic vein, is alien now,
they aren't invited here anymore,
sulking, loitering around a bit, they have left, before sun down.
We are racing towards deadlines,
roads everywhere are blocked, broken, changed beyond
recognition, one's own street, needs introduction
work is in progress even at midnight,
new flyovers, elevated roads, sky scrappers
you easily lose count, and crawl through a maze,
all for a make over, to a global city of electronics,
from a sleepy town, embracing villages
to somewhere, the world feels flat, in an illusory grandeur.
Trees died horrible deaths,
a loveless and forlone look takes over, even on young faces
the sparrows, disappear, no one knows where
they have gone, bees and butterflies,
what would be their fate, studies are on.
A lady in the front seat
gets jittery, she is not sure where she goes,
the driver doesn't pay attention,
there is none to reassure,
we are on the move, fast too.
I was looking for Mahatma Gandhi Road, but the signs
are all gone, hope, those would be back pretty soon,
but would love come back?
OOO
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC
My liberty lies in my history
My slippery ascent to be known
My silvery, glittery, valedictory victory
My injury all my own
My inwardly jittery liturgy
Mixed up with witchery and trickery
My history is not HIS, my history is my own.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
A life full of history
I really wish I could erase those memories
They are my dark past mystery
Yeah, it hurts and still does leave me jittery
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
I am one to have my emotions under control.
Seventeen years of maneuvering around other’s
Peculiar mood swings
Taught me how to ignore
The chaos of human sentiment.
And so my features remain stoic since.
I have learned how to channel the anxiety
Manifesting itself in a jittery leg, shortness of breath,
And a discordant mind.
It is possible– Quite easy, actually–
To translate a torrent of worry
Into potential energy.
Three years in a closet
Is time enough to collect many pretty dresses
And forget there is ugliness in the world.
As much as I preach the virtue of honesty,
Lying has become second nature,
If only to keep these shark-infested waters
Calm for one more day.
I ought to be devoid of sentiment by now,
As much of a shell as that detestable Louisa Bounderby.
However, I recently found myself mistaken;
I am not a product of Utilitarianism.
Recently, I’ve been feeling–
Oddly ill.
With a loss of appetite,
A churning stomach herbal tea cannot alleviate,
Difficulty sleeping,
And a racing heartbeat.
These symptoms are purely somatic
And therefore, quite frustrating.
I met a girl last week;
I wonder if I caught it from her.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
Some people remind me of a campfire,
a source of eclectic senses:
the smoky wood,
the evolutionary fascination of the flame,
the warmth and chill of a starry night.
Others remind me of a snow day in grade school,
a source of jittery incongruence:
the sprinkles of white,
the disruption of monotonous school work,
the mischief of nature coming to the rescue.
You remind me of an early morning rain,
a source of calm melancholy:
the soft droplets on leaves,
the lessened saturation from the overcast,
the heightened realization and contentment of one's existence.
The essence of people
epitomized as scenes and collective experiences;
it is not so much of what it is
but rather how it makes you feel.
Apr 12, 2024
Apr 12, 2024 at 6:36 PM UTC