"labeling" poems
society society society
we were so happy
why did you drive us insane
my labeling humanity
we are growing younger
because of your dense behavior
you should have been silent
instead of calling us a failure
what you gain is satisfaction
But, in us
what is lost is compassion
you are blind, you don't see
you don't know, what is reality
you don't speak
because you are afraid
afraid, that you may not be happy
like you are today
-Kaya
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
Let's hold out hope for the crippled.
Hope for the crippled?
No thanks, this crip doesn't need your hope.
This crip needs you to stop.
Stop labeling me.
Stop feeling sorry for me.
Stop pitying me and my 'poor life'
Just ******* stop!
No, really, I'm okay. I don't need you.
I don't need you or your miracles.
Don't tell me God works miracles
And to hold out hope
Because maybe one day I'll walk
Or maybe I'll get to see from both eyes
Because God works miracles
But you're too busy fixing what isn't broken that you forget
If I was truly made in his image this crip doesn't need healed.
This crip doesn't need your prayers or miracles.
This crip doesn't need your God or your salvation.
This crip doesn't need your hope.
Poor soul, she's diminished by her disability.
Diminished by my disability?
The only thing I'm diminished by
Is your inability to understand
That before anything else I am human.
I make mistakes and have flaws.
I feel, probably more than most,
And sometimes those feelings get in the way.
I empathize but I am done sympathizing.
You say my wheelchair is a blessing in disguise.
Why can't it just be a blessing?
A blessing that comes with lots of lessons.
Some that I learn the hard way and some that come easy.
But this wheelchair doesn't need a reason
To teach me (or you) a lesson.
Sure, it frustrates me when a wheel breaks or I fall on a broken sidewalk
But it teaches me humility and patience.
And there's no reason to disguise that this wheelchair is a blessing.
So, please take your hope and pity
Your guilt and salvation elsewhere
Because they're defeating the purpose. They're detracting from the point.
I am not diminished by my disability.
I am not to be quieted or pitied
I am not your reason to feel guilty
I am not a burden
I am human.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
Being present means I'm not mentally labeling
Creating inner space and stillness, a being's haven
Being present means I'm not feeling emotionally drained
Creating inner space and stillness, more and more gained
Being present means I'm not waiting to react
Creating inner space and stillness, a being's habitat
Being present means I'm not clinging to the past
Creating inner space and stillness, it is so vast
Being present means I'm not worrying about the future
Creating inner space and stillness, and this I will nurture
Being present means I'm not compulsive thinking
Creating inner space and stillness, to God I am linking
Being present means I'm not judging what others think, say or do
Creating inner space and stillness, a being's point of view
Being present means I'm not resisting what is
Creating inner space and stillness, a native of this
Being present means I'm not attached to any kind of form
Creating inner space and stillness, a being's norm
Being present means I'm alert and alive
Creating inner space and stillness, a being's high five
Being present means I have the time for you
Creating inner space and stillness, and wholeness too
Being present means I enjoy what I do
Creating inner space and stillness, consciously too
Being present means I am consciously speaking, doing and acting
Creating inner space and stillness, of which there is no lacking
Being present means I am aligned to my purpose
Creating inner space and stillness, alive and alertness
Being present means I am at peace
Creating inner space and stillness, and flowing with ease
Being present means I accept its isness
Creating inner space and stillness, that is growing within us
Being present means I know there is no more important moment
Creating inner space and stillness, and feeling atonement
Being present means I'm connecting to a depth within
Creating inner space and stillness, for all to live in
Being present means there's nowhere else I'd rather be
Creating inner space and stillness, and the power To Be
Plant your flower ........
Being present means
I know there's no more
Important moment
Than NOW
© Delores Wiltse 2008 Excerpt from:
A Door Is Opening/AuthorHouse.com
Fresh Spiritual Poetry via:
http://peacefromwithin.shawwebspace.ca/
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:35 AM UTC
I don’t think you understand,
because I don’t, this wasn’t what I planned.
So I’m wondering how you can understand, when I don’t.
I won’t lose myself loving you, I won’t.
You’ve got me feeling too many different things,
got me contemplating cutting our tethered strings.
Falling in love has me tripping
over my own two feet? Maybe. All I know is I’m slipping
face first into this tangled mess
and now guilt eats at me as I slip from your arms half dressed
in the mornings when all I want is to escape,
wishing I was Wonder Woman with that red cape.
I slip away, but it hurts-
but I’ve seen it; my family, we’re cursed.
Concerning love, we’ve had no luck
I can’t lose you, so I’m labeling us a causal ****
I hear you yelling now that you know my reasons,
promising our love could survive even the coldest season.
But how can he be so sure?
Doubts plague me as I slip toward his front door,
because love didn’t come with a brochure.
I hear you figuring aloud that I don’t love you enough.
You come to the conclusion,
“if this is how you feel, then I’ll set you free”
I got in my car, driving around till the clouds were dark and the clock said three.
Your words had been like knives,
but then I started thinking about my dad’s four wives.
My brain’s all jumbled,
it’s like there was one second left, I was on the one yard line, and I fumbled.
Is the risk worth it?
Could my heart even take the hit?
When I got home, in the dark I saw you standing
my heart was demanding
that I make my way over to you
but my brain said these feelings needed to be subdued.
I heard you say “I love you too much to set you free”
It was then when I looked in your eyes, love was all I could truly see.
My scalp tingled in realization,
as I floated toward you with some type of natural gravitation.
My heart had already taken the risk, without permission
and that’s when I mumbled my belated admission;
“I love you too and I’ll take my chances,”
My brain finally conceded to your romantic advances.
But really, truth was, I’d been under an illusion
because our love had always been a foregone conclusion.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Last week, among friends black and white,
among some discussion of protests in Ferguson
and the related looting of stores, I invoked
the word. It was an admission, in a round
of confessions, of something about myself
that I didn't like: that I had perceived Michael Brown
in that way based on his possible participation
in a strong-armed robbery.
When Travon Martin was in the news,
I was inflamed like many others who wanted
George Zimmerman in jail for ******
The outcome of that trial was an injustice,
I was utterly certain. Why does this case
in Missouri feel different? More importantly,
Who is inside me that still wants to rise
in defiance of 48 years of learning how
to be a better person, a person without prejudices,
stereotyping, labeling of others, hurtful language?
Where is the hippie girl now? How does she live
with this other person? Am I Sterling, Gibson,
a hater and spewer of viciousness, a lover
of separation and separateness, that I should
invite damage to my own relationships
with those I love and cherish and respect?
What is a **** but a bully, and what is a bully
but someone who pushes words around like
weapons, spits them out indiscriminately,
so that they land on the already bruised heart
and set it on fire.
Whose heart, besides mine, now sits in smoke
and ash, with that word like a brand
still sore and permanent, having been spoken
aloud?
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
Socialist agendas destroying pride
labeling me based upon appearance
a racist with a bald head
just another *******
just guilty of being white
political correctness negating free speech
when all i do is speak the truth
free of racist intent
yet i am just another redneck
just guilty of being white
white pride tattooed upon my chest
iron crosses upon my arms
but you look for a hidden meaning
when all it means it white pride
and respect for my German heritage
its funny, the double standard that exists
when minorities do the same
and its nothing more than pride
but i am guilty without reason
beyond a doubt in your mind
yet you call me a racist
what does that say about you?
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 4:13 AM UTC
And love is really important,
even if just for one night.
It can chase away your biggest fears,
it can get your through your toughest fight.
Don't let society make you feel cheap
for only needing love in small, temporary amounts.
Your value as a person
isn't derived from your *** partner count.
Don't let them make you feel ***** or small,
because some of us need this to survive.
The night of love we get from strangers,
we use just to stay alive.
Because relationships can be messy,
and hearts are so easily broken.
But through nights of whisky and hotel rooms,
we find words of peace that were never spoken.
And some of us don't have hearts,
as they were stolen long ago.
From men called "Dad"
and men in suits,
and men who we've never known.
And maybe the word **** makes the people feel okay.
This type of labeling has been going on since the Biblical days.
Maybe it makes them feel better about their own sinful ways.
Maybe when the Earth crumbles, they'll have a price to pay.
Because they don't know what it's like to be empty for so long,
That the thought of being full terrifies you.
They don't know that you'd rather be wrong,
than risk the pain that being right can put you through.
But I do, my dear.
For I am one of you.
I've felt closer to heaven in the arms of strangers
than I ever have kneeling on a pew.
I know what you dream of, darling.
I know that you dream of lasting and healing love.
I know that you feel prisoner by your demons,
I know you hope for a sign from above.
Don't let the world bother you much.
I understand you; I know you're doing your best.
For now, it's okay to find comfort in a stranger's touch,
to let love fall from your mouth.
To let pain flow from of your chest.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
Only a moment ago stood a father
Keys in his hands to a truck that lost its driver
To a bad decision and a bottle of beer
Sitting in a dark room is a bed
That will no longer hold a body
Down the hall a mother breaks
Feeling the loss of a last breath
As if it were her own punctured lungs
Hitting the steering wheel
As water floods the engine
Two men stand at her doorstep
One refusing to look her in the eyes
The other apologizing for his words
That should never be said
For the labeling of childless parents
Before this moment a boy sat
Posed as a man on the edge of a bar stool
Consuming his death wish through his lips
An apology engraved in the fold of his throat
Giving an approximation to his silence
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
There are too many hairs
I keep blowing off my keyboard
To pretend they aren’t there
And that they can be ignored.
I can't pretend I have gone blind,
I am admitting they are all there
And that they come from me;
They truly are my own hair.
It must be true, I hazard
Because I can see my scalp.
It’s a situation from aging
For which there is no help.
I have long expected it.
It will do no good to whine.
The disappearing tonsure
I needs must claim as mine.
And so I placate myself
With selfish comparisons
I may look older than others
But much better than some.
Not many decades ago
I once thought sixty was old.
I am thankful for my friends
Who decided not to scold.
They knew I was being
Just the least bit callow.
But they avoided labeling me
With words like vain and shallow.
So, perhaps the vain part
I have with me even now,
And I would abandon that
If I could figure out how.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Teasing the beast
Looking for a feast
Hounds barking at our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom
To hide the great systematic sickness
Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire
We, wholeheartedly accepting being
Appropriated, labeled, discarded
As construing our own oppression and sadness
Enduring the **** of our minds
Being castrated of our consciousness
Before we reap the products
Of its bold liberation and grandness
Its the belly of the beast
And its hungry
Insatiable, amoral entrails
Hoping to salvage a feast
From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars
Hoping we feed our monstrous fear
Thirsting for the greed
Dripping off of accumulating wealths
Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges
Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies
Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience
Knowing we'll never realize we are masses
Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering
Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action
Trying to reassure we are weak
Knowing at some point or another
We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences:
Oppression
Pain
Silencing
****
Hunger
Fear
Violence
Repression
Retaliation
Discrimination
Torture
Negation
Alienation
All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation
Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment
Preferring to live out our veiled miseries
Endorsing their continuance
Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation
Always ensuring the feast of the beast
By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature
Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us
All parts of its most damaging weapon: the seed of discord
Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation
Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Signifying the impending recapturing
Of our true transformative desires
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
It's funny how open we can be.
When the real person inside you,
Starts to run and leap.
The only problem is the others,
Who have not yet decided to be free.
Constantly judging those around them,
And labeling you a freak.
But I love the real me,
The one who can be everything,
Show courage and be sweet.
Why can't you do the same?
Are you broken? Incomplete?
Have you not solved your puzzle?
The one your life stands to beat?
I don't see why you can't just be real with me.
Tell me how you feel, let me know when your glad,
That little grimace you made,
Did someone hurt you bad?
Let me see who you are,
Let us giggle and laugh,
I just want what's real,
Not some conservative drag.
I love when your silly,
It makes the day worthy not bad.
Don't be afraid to admit that, that is your favorite snack.
I'll share it with you, no one will bag,
The real you is worth while,
It's all I'll ever ask,
I can't wait for the real you,
To step out and feel glad.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
I’ve been squeezing moose all over my body in an attempt
To give it more volume
Which is to say I was trying to give my life more depth
When you’re finished reading astronomy you’ll end up
Throwing oranges at pedestrians because **** it, Earth is
Meaningless and everyone needs to cheer up
**** it because being content is the hardest
Thing you can possibly do
Which is to say throwing oranges at people is the hardest
Thing to do without getting your *** kicked
**** it because when an orange concentrates hard enough it becomes juice
And if I concentrate hard enough I **** myself
Which is to say I need to have a seat and calm down—
Enjoy this cigarette while it lasts
I am no longer able to print Handle-With-Care labeling
And tape it to my body like someone who actually believes that works
While the sun laughs and harasses me with oranges all day
**** it, there’s too much moose and I’m wearing a white shirt.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
It isn't sadness;
that is the biggest misconception.
People treat it like an emotion infecting a blue day,
labeling slightly soaked cheeks as this ailment of the mind.
The term is cracked like a whip in stinging insult:
weak, powerless, loser, outcast.
It is feeling a lack of feeling,
where one exists in a mental state of wanting to be anything but lethargic
yet finding nothing worthwhile inside
with which to take action:
no talent, no skill, no interest.
It is not only not believing one has any energy
but seeing nothing to which to give it,
in yourself, in others, in the world.
It is severe despondency and dejection,
consuming worlds like oozing, viscose magma
dribbling uncontrollably as burning ***** from the mountain's fiery mouth
burping filthily as is sludges onward.
It isn't sorrow, or misery, or despair.
It is inadequacy,
an ebb of interest in life,
with a sliver of interest to take it.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
One phonecall? Alert the public
Who would you call in a stance of conundrum in case the sky's falling down?
Desperate measures in desperate times
I carry an emergency kit with extra ink for my rhymes
And a band aid for my lips to cover up the disease they diagnosed me with;
Of Spitting up filthy ****
Labeling ill kids,
With conditions made up like myths
Deluded? Please.
Excuses are sad pleas to ensure the public's attention skips the obvious.
So I'd rather lock myself away,
And use my notebook to convey my love;
For the person I'd dedicate one last phone call to.
Lock myself away like Anne frank in the attic and write so much fire it produces sparks
the static is electric; the rush through my veins has me lost,
In the cosmic abyss of my thoughts
While I'm lit... I concoct schemes to conquer mics
If you dissect my insides with jabs, I'll retaliate with clever forensics;
Cut myself open for the world to see,
That all I'd bleed is metaphors in overdose...
Infinite similes are the catalyst to my rhythmic metamorphosis
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
young people,
they think nobody has the
same thoughts as them
they take great pride in some made up
originality
as if really nobody ever thought up
scenarios of themselves descending
some rope from some helicopter and
dropping in the middle of enemy forces and
starting to shoot around, all movie like ‘an ****
and killing all the bad guys while not
taking one bullet
One man army
or there’s those other thoughts
of being simply the greatest at some
sport and being admired and envied for it
also, the thoughts of *** in all its forms
the thoughts of mindless violence
of saving the day
of being somewhere else and doing something else
all kinds of thoughts
and all the minds who think them label them as original
but they’re not original
they’re every young person’s thoughts
and me,
I also have thoughts I consider original
I think of how it is to be old
pretty much every **** day
I think of me being old and dried up and weak
and waiting for death
it’s not a very pleasant thought
especially for someone in their twenties
but it’s my way of labeling my thoughts original
maybe in some wheel chair
with a nurse pushing me from behind
No kids
no family
no fortune
no achievements
a life wasted
death watching from above
mockingly
and myself looking up at it
smiling
************ you think you got me
but little do you know that
while I was able, while I was more lively than
a rotting carrot
I defied you by ripping apart pieces of me
that will stick with the world
long after I’m gone
Oh, they might not be great pieces or even good ones
but behind they remain as you take me away
and all of them branded with my name
It’s through them that I am
immortal
and there’s nothing you can do about it
great, good
or bad,
you cannot **** a poet
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 7:11 AM UTC
You are the early 2000s playlist in my memories
A poster big black and faded, advertising a white face
Pictures of the past I struggled to survive
The words which I spewed on a dime
I still dream of the things I want to say
I want to be your good time
But also your whole life
You see, this is the dilemma in my own weird way
But I don't want to fall back and die
Or live beside the ocean
Because that would be the same as all my other days
Lonely
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
sound and noise-
two chapters of the same book.
Sound: the quiet ripening of music notes over wind, or the fluttering of bird and butterfly wings.
Noise: the static between radio stations, gun fire, weeping.
There would be no such thing as the overlooked if there wasn't anything highlighted, and so I would not be writing about our neglect of sadness unless there were such a thing as happiness.
young love and youth and destruction and dreams are all noise, all left in the shadows of their more bright, elder predecessors.
And we mistaken noise for sound more often than not, which makes the ability to hear a blessing and a curse.
For we mistaken a teen's cries as a sign of teen angst, or a mother's book of rules as a restriction of our lives, and the noise we think is being produced is the music of our lives. Sound isn't beautiful, sound is real. Noise is heard, sound, you feel.
So before you go labeling something as noise, remember what is missing: noise implies that everyone can hear, but no one is listening.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
The Summer Alphabet of Woman
Every summer, I learn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
And its charms and naked arms, its own alphabet,
clean forgot.
Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
But mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all cold, know them all, hot.
I speak Woman.
Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.
There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!
I speak Woman.
There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days, vacations, no school.
There are no ugly women in the summer.
I could take this writ many places,
But if you are sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Could not give a good god **** because in the summer,
There is no ugly, there is no prejudice.
And I still speak
Woman with an almost perfect fluency,
au naturel.
Gym clothes, short shorts, A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels, flats clip clopping, flip flopping
all over my heart,
But, it is the bare arms and the hints of summer
Cleavage, the short skirts, body hugging one piece fabrics
stretching from here to down there that does not
Hint,
the shoulder strap of the underthings that asks,
that commands me,
to wonder where it leads too...
Even the light wrap at night mocks me,
Like gift wrapping with a smile demure...a teasing blindfold...
All these say:
Write us poetry in our very own tongue,
Woman.
Will oblige.
I curve with curve of the ***** and
invert with S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, and never fails.
The crayola colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses... How can tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?
Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, then a
Timpani crash and thunder, as
Byron wrote,
"music arose with its voluptuous swell,"
Yes, swell...swell...swell
Enough.
My eloquence, no match for my
Fluency.
Late August, and my vocabulary is already
Diminishing.
I forget how to say in
Woman
*Without you I am nothing,
With you, I am more than everything,*
Tho I can no longer say it,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Let it be known~
Beyond the mere musings of tool bearing monkeys
Lies an ineffable essence which deflects archaic labeling.
This is the direct experience of non-discriminatory equalization
Of conceived notions.
All which may be considered good and true
Vaporizes in the blinding eye of this clarity.
Language is the battleground of ignorance and illiteracy
Of what begs not be named~
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
The worest pain of all pains
The unreasonable hatred of persons
The blined conclusion of a grudge
That eats you in and outside
The ailment that weakness the strong
And weights a person by the color of the skin
The insolent behavioral catagory of human
The foreboding labeling that robes person's greatness
Which I call this
'RACISM.'
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 4:16 PM UTC
orange juice and a rabid flight
of love for you but not the kind
of love requiring either bent
over the counter. the kind
of love where what is one
is alls'. is everyones', is
everything and there is never
one - either side - going wanting
for our emotions shared are
those mutually lost in the greater
mass of what humanity has
culled into their concept of
social awareness and some
chick ranting about the collective
consciousness. they're evil, or so
told. and onward, always forward
but never straight to remember
a perpetual motion of the hands
controlled by the soul -
that's what's called the mind these days.
forgone, for a single word,
far gone and lost in the wind with
sails ripping from the flushed canvas
swollen by the trade winds -
not those trade winds, but ours.
our conversation and appreciation,
and this allegory - metaphor more likely -
is of the soul being the true vessel
when the vessel is the last vessel,
and to please the dying vessel,
repeat in infinity this ******* cycle
of Samsara. en eternal vessel of meat
ground fine to be filtered through
silicone. this is our ship, this spurned
burger of muscles that succumbs
to parasites finding us pork.
eat the **** gain the trich unlike caring
Canadians who destroyed the
pig in them. destroyed the mentality of
what is wrong but quit? why ever try
for greater, and learning is not an
end to a means. and again the souls
vessel - allegorized Ulysses proper -
is in metaphor a ship, breath the trade
winds and wisdom precious cargo.
the null are bandits, the haired beast
of both the North and South . .
barbarous action through organization
and labeling of existence as A to B,
as A to Z, and realize that means
twenty-six is the end.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
Used to be convincing, now I'm word mincing
Funny guy telling lies, stop that face from wincing
Shut the word forge down, absurd surge start to pour out
Brain matter splatter in colored conviction, how I rattle off with four dimensional diction
Once this **** was scripted, now these lips don't do cryptic, legendary fiction, not yet mythic
Contemporary Christians sit listless, labeling those they hardly know
That's we, people like me, as infamous and wicked, can you even conceive
Not that I need the acquittal, never say please for a spoon full of ******
Hate this human disease; doubtful economic, muted mumbles of Ebonics, questionable hearts freeze
Turned cold-blooded because violence it seems is our cure all reprieve
Instead of honest admittance, no room for forgiveness, when we elect politics that lie
Ignite the engines that chain drive, infernal furnaces of the reapers design
Calling out to the sky; "forgive us were blind!"
Upon final inception, the birth of nightmarish conception
Awoken to world of hard line lesson, seasons of trick testing
So tell me then, can you live with A or B? dip those toes into sea and you'll know what I mean
Dare you to please.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
Boys, Boys, Boys,
Likable, lovable,or lonely,
Some are completely despicable,
You got those hard ***** who are too strong for love, or who will just lead ya on, making you think thoughts you shouldn't about them and
Making you want them more then you should,
Or you got those babies, the ones who refuse to actually grow some *****
The ones who ask you to forgive them of their weaknesses,
Their shortcomings and their downfalls,
Like seriously?
I'm a girl, not a leaning post who you can depend upon,
Ok, maybe if I knew you more,
But still like, really?
The ones who refuse to make a move, like even afraid to touch you,
What? Do I have cooties or something,
Hold my hand, or hold me,
Come on!
Then you got those ones who don't even know how to communicate,
Or say something worth hearing,
Please I've heard it all,
How cute and adorable I am,
The Goddess, a queen, labeling me to be one who I'm not,
I'm a human being, one of you!
Last time I checked I was a mortal, not some model of perfection,
But to be put on such a pedestal is simply too much.
So come on guys, get a grip and learn how to stand up for yourselves,
Don't pretend I'm something more then I'm not,
It aint going to work,
I want you as a friend, then a lover, but the crushes are constantly crushing my hopes and dreams of finding that one prince charming
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 11:11 PM UTC
Rebellion smells like apples, cinnamon
and *****
On a gravel road swallowed whole by
a surrounding forest of lush greens
we stood in opposition, revolution
firearms nestled in our hands.
We rebelled against alcoholism.
Drunk, amber soldiers stumbled across
the uneven surface of the log they vacated.
Our bullets shattered them one by one.
The rifle’s kick back slammed against me.
The cracking echo of each gunshot
filled the hollow chiseled in my chest
and tenderized my brain.
Shards of hard cider and hard liquor
spattered the dirt; the bright red
of the Angry Orchards’ labeling
bleeding war into the earth and grit.
We searched for survivors.
The air was perfumed with Cinnamon Apple
and *****
The soft spice of autumn and harvest
wafted gently up my nose
followed by the sharp scent of
disinfectant, hospitals, stainless steel.
It was the smell of ***** my default.
Nudging a dusty bottle neck with my toe
I couldn’t help but think back to
the angry, open-mouthed kisses
I once shared with my bottles
early in the morning until late at night.
A furious thirst surged through me.
I still wanted a drink.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC