"lesion" poems
Your origami snapper came along
tucked into my wallet
things like that don't travel well
but I managed
they suffered a lesion to the spine
snappers are apparently weak there
maybe we can work on growing a backbone together
handmade gifts mean the most
less, when it was made in whimsy and flimsy
more, because it gave me false hope
maybe it's a sign
like a uke-playing octopus
maybe friendship is all I need right now
your origami snapper is a great listener
It sits on my desk
Either mocking or pondering, I can’t tell
Snappers are hard to read that way
Maybe if we showed more emotion you’d
notice
but action requires reaction
and somehow the origami rose I made forgot it’s origami thorns
But there could be blood on my hands
From a beautiful friendship I so recklessly slaughter
pulling up roots like weeds
adding wistful thinking to inimitable memories
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
Another misfire for heaven's weapon
threaten lesson second session
another confession of deception
we are headed toward armageddon
truth seeking and eating reason
demon sleeping will get even
secret leaking ****** heathen
unsweetened creeping deepened
lesion from the freedom legion
eden eaten and not breathing
region of the code adhesion
needed beacon beaten defeated
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Opportunity or opposing unity to unify and untie
Leper's lesion sipping each seasonal reason for loving your flowing hair and knowing care
Strike the stench and light the match and throw open the hatch jump inside along with furry-toad-love
*** and lust and the vex of the ****** of what is on the television gone up and through and something grew inside my skull where IT is thus, null
And I speak of course off course because of this coarse curse of your love
Flinching finch-pinch-tense, since she's, hence, a personal goddess
I'm a man of fetus-like love of birth and woman-girth
I like my girls to be bigger
Though perhaps for a less redeemable reason
I am the humanoid-elemental-embodiment of low self-confidence
And most are out of my "league" (at least physically and aesthetically)
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Each death, a searing lesion in my soul
I wonder if you are alive, trapped
Among these treacherous walls
Are you starving too?
Desperate for home
Tired of all the spilling tears
And the sight of broken people?
I think I may have seen hell
But if I should pass by heaven
God will need to bawl and beg
For my forgiveness
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
i am no master musician
yet i hear my own catastrophe glistening at every song i chose
not to sing
because i know i have vision, i made an incision in my eye socket
and confirmed it
i envision a decision ill have to make one day
where i have my life in one hand and my heart in the other
one promises only luxury and a metaphorical prison
and the other is like a lesion that hurts and hurts
but every time i scratch it
i shoots Ecstasy where im burnt, into the blood in my spit
and when i spit it out it turns around and tells me that it was worth it
that life is never perfect only worth it or not worth it
there is no purpose but to make your life absurd and horrid
so you can make it out alive, and have that ten seconds of bliss
before the next drop
and hope the next stop is the next peak
maybe next week
or the next day
or the next hour
or the next second
i beckon it, and even if it doesnt come
to some that means its worthless
but i find that perfect
gives me something to work towards and not sit and be melodramatic
i want to live phenomenally
i want the music in my ears
the talent in my peers
and intelligence enough to not have to talk to chirping crickets
even when my friends are in front of me
i think i've found that here
it's quite comfy
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
To see action through your Artillery,
your standing eyes betrays other emotions.
Longing to touch you
yet to see your through body,
form and no substance makes a stray bed of rest.
Craters of realisation launch the chime.
What left have I, having teased the lesion.
A crawling victim stands direction less, and having learnt,
I will disarm your vague distractions.
According to lessons I call on regret and treasure its tears.
Surely past sufferers will empathise.
Mud and clay will wrap itself into an ointment
Then we can be reborn.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Omission
She lies awake on her back
Trying to remember when she lost her pack
Sack, the memories into her face
It ruins her temporary happy place
Space, sometimes she feels she needs to be far
Locks herself away into a tiny jar
Mare, her skin it's bruised and scarred
Help her soul it's broken and charred
Barred, she bangs at her rusty cell
Scared of rejection she endures the smell
Sell, her heart to no one she won't
Until the return of her body she lount
Sewn't, the buttons to mend her heart
But the razors bent and the scars ripped apart
Dart, into the darkest pit of despair
Help her cry cause she's mentally impaired
Scared, she cuts her wrists for a reason
Only person that cared was farther than next season
Lesion, on her heart the trust and love
Only gave her body when push came to shove
Above, her demons trampled her
A feeling in her chest much like stuffed fur
Stir, the *** that makes her finish this life
Just like bread its easily cut with a knife
Strife, it all all ends with violent dissention
She falls to the floor in mortal penitintion
Attention, ladies and gentleman may I say a couple words
All she ever wanted was to fly free like the birds
Herds, of souls wandering in deep cognition
Now you can see her body at the local mortician
Omission
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
After our 3rd 16-hour shift we skipped down the gravel road in the 4 am dusk holding still numb hands
hysterically laughing about a snowman made of ****** fish ice and decorated with intestines
to our room of splintered walls and sand infused beds.
Drunk on sleep deprivation and the movement of the conveyor belts
Fiona demanded of the 4 am twilight that our work be easier tomorrow
I told her that tomorrow could always be the hardest
she told me that I’m Eeyore because my contemplation always looks a bit like pessimism.
A week later I stuck my finger in the pus filled lesion of a salmon
and worried that I wasn’t existing well enough
I asked Fiona if she thought we were more ourselves dressed in layers of sleep deprivation
She cut 3 tails and stated that we must experience more life when we’re awake for 18 hours a day.
This place had forced the clean carefully constructed versions of ourselves to collapse
but she didn’t want this coarse damp translation of humanity to be what we intrinsically are.
Water and pink slime slid down my rain gear as I processed her words and the fillets sliding by
60 salmon later she spoke again
“You said once that every person you meet has some sort of impact on your life.
Maybe you’re always you but never the you that you were before this moment
because who we are is infinitely changing
we won’t always be grime.”
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 4:58 AM UTC
Never in my inspiration,
Deflecting all imagination.
Breathing through an agitation,
With every mundane conversation.
Predicting expectation,
Leaving nothing but hesitation.
The fear is overwhelming,
But so is every situation.
A choice.
Risking ourselves for no one else,
Selfless in thought,
Letting selfishness rejoice.
Rhyme or reason,
Virtues painted in patient seasons.
In treason.
Trying to find the rhyme in reason,
Rather than being investigative,
And bandaging the lesion;
We let it flow.
Don’t let it go,
If you do,
You might know more than you know.
And we’d rather become blind,
Live in a detrimental time.
Seeing the future as our past,
And letting progress happen last.
Political,
Self-critical,
The devil is too literal.
Advocate for less,
Become muted for something more.
Because the goals inside,
The dreams we hide,
Are the demons we choose to store.
The choice,
The existence,
Is everything within us.
Its hope and aspirations,
Admiration and indication.
A vision towards change inside,
Allowing the child to play outside.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Fountains past a milky one
blinded spots of spoilt stones
darkened pebbles of loath
turned to a necrotic lesion
tensions of unmentioned
tractions of the substitute
for the light I saw dimmed
Such a rapid trim discarded
as if it never breathed or existed
Such a polish of luminance
evaporated over the unseen clouds
and all the edges are now scratched
summed in all the misspoken words
Why did you even want to play?
with a mass as big as whale
a sail of the disproportionate
abstracted dissonance as accorded
too quick to run away from the red flags
footsteps of the unmarked foot steps
in filtered tracks of a chauvinist prokaryote
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
Guarded by darkness, it's too late,
The dungeon doors have closed.
The lights of heaven faded from your existence.
The sound of rattling chains,
Echoes off four chambers.
Lingering on your tongue,
Metallic lust from ankle cuffs.
You beg your veins to open up, and
swallow the poison you need so much.
To feel the indulging touch, that crippling crutch, you need to feel so much.
Crawl through your path of reason
Lighted with dim red lights, lined with zombies too lethargic to fight.
You stand, but you're too weak to stride,
So you slide by the hands that bite you.
They guide you down your hall of lesion,
Until you reach your crimson prison.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
i wish i had
something bad
something sweet
some kind of treat
something good
something good
give me the cure
of our lost gaze
in the cosmic haze
you watched me cry, you watched me cry
washed me dry washed me dry
lost in eachothers eyes
lost in each others inner thigh
you've left me with this lesion
so let me cry, let me cry
you've left me dry
left me dry
i hope we fall for eachother once again
in the cosmic haze
of our last gaze
let me fry let me fry
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
*
Happens,
It often happens
In LOVE
After a LOVER is hurt
BELOVED is injured
Happens,
It often happens
In LOVE
After a LOVER is wounded
BELOVED bleeds
Happens,
It often happens
In LOVE
After LOVER bears a lesion
BELOVED carries the scars
Happens,
It often happens
In LOVE
After LOVER is humiliated
BELOVED bears the trauma
Happens,
It often happens
In LOVE
After LOVER is in grief
BELOVED is in pain
Happens,
It often happens
In LOVE
After LOVER is sweared at
BELOVED bears the curse
Happens,
It often happens
In LOVE
After LOVER cries in night
BELOVED remains awake
And finally...
Happens,
It often happens
In LOVE
**After LOVE happens to Romeo:
- Zuliet is LOVED
- Flower of LOVE blooms
In Zuliet's heart
- Zuliet is independent
From past life to
LIVE & LOVE freely**
*
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
Last of a beloved set
of bone China plates
just developed a lesion.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
I'm Leaving now
let this be a lesion
To all who think that words don't matter
How could you look her in the eyes say you love her
she knows you lie
why not come clean what's the point
all she wanted was for you to try
burry her in the finest silk
tell her she's beautiful before her make up begins to wilt
all she wanted was for something to be real
Now she's gone what will you say
to the mother that walks your way
You smile again but it biter sweet this time
When a daughter takes her own damb life
tell her she's pretty, take her out to eat, dance with her
let her stand on your feet
don't turn your back and pull out a flask
all she wanted was for something to last
I'll make this quick you wont have to stay
close your eyes and float away
go to her it will be ok
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
*They swallowed me and spit out.
My pride was dispelled in a cold land.
The tumid persecution with the connivance of rake rampantly exhume my organs.
My fervent desire in extending my hand was ebbing fast.
I’m a feme. I’m at the end of my tether.
They tied up my hands and feet on both edge of the glandola.
I was surrounded by darkness frozen alone.
From night till dawn they flogging me then soak in salty water.
No more grain of hope for me to see the birth of my son.
I can taste no more the honeydew that my husband had brought me.
They will surely lament for me…
They whom I vowed to serve and cherish.
Who wants to indite a poem for me?
Who wants to limn my life story?
My lesion leaked by flies has been dried up.
My body was mortify in shame without any clad.
I’m at the end of my tether.
But…
They will remember me!
They will tell my life story.
They will fight for me!
They, the youth, will cut the Gordian knot!
*
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
We’re painting the roses red
Because the white isn’t good enough
It’s too innocent, too pure
It’s petals not yet touched by the crimson dripping from our hearts
What hearts?
Hearts we build out of plastic
So that bullets shot at us leave no drastic wounds
Only indents
Nobody says anything
We wrap lace around our rotten cores
Hopeful that beautiful will one day mean forgotten
And our mistakes won’t haunt us like stairwell ghosts
They’re band aids we place on each lesion
Doing whatever it takes to create shield of armour for our castle
Can’t you see you’re a castle?
A castle built on top of the ground you were pushed down upon
Where the white roses grow
Words are like arrows aimed at your throat
And you can’t breathe so you close your eyes
Covering your ears like a worried toddler
You hide and inside you build treehouses
With signs that read “No Trespassing”
Throwing stones at a fleeting reality that begs to be let in
But you’re terrified of what you’ll find waiting
Because you’re still just a child
Aren’t we all children?
Children left timid and quivering
Who pity themselves as lesser beings
Two halves in two worlds
Built only on broken roads that wish to bring harm
And their arms feel weak from reaching both distances
Somewhere along the way their compass was smashed
One hand pointing north, the other south
So they call themselves worthless and keep their mouth shut
But why does that make them the lamb and you the lion?
A lamb that counts their scars as they grow
And notice they all look like people
Snakes in mankind’s clothing
Who asked you to love them but their fangs sank too deep
They couldn’t see your innocence bloom in each petal
They assume that your heart is as damaged as them
Admiring the view of rose covered gardens all painted red
Where everyone wants to be different or dead
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
Soury water flow
Ceaseless tears last till death days
I die a millionth living years
Lesion of wound reddish show
I am a victim of war relic
Can't you see, my burnt house
My pair of rag clothe
My battered ink of ignorance
Queuing for a feed
Begging for a drink
**** in a homeless bridge
Conscripted as a child soldier
Can't you see, I am the war relic ?
Voice of refugees status I am
Rebel to my homeland I run
Deprived by mortal quest for power
Politics of hatred wash me to bank of ocean
Can't you see I have one arm, one eye, one embroidery parts
Can't you see am a victim of power mongers
I have foolishly support their quest
I have shouted for the nuke to be test
Justifying their foolish context
they ran away to have a succor of rest
When the war bullet penetrate the wall
I am decorated as a zeroed hero
Holding crutches leaping like a dog
So bad I am abandoned in a refugee camp
Can't you see I am the worst victim of war with relatives buried and burned
with fire of sand and the gods watch without intervention
by
Martin Ijir
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 5:35 PM UTC
The clock's laughing, subversely
as every second fades
bleeding the hours everlasting
cursing the essence of today.
The sun leaves trails of perception
as the Moon begins its rise
to twist & turn the ocean
and pull at the rising tide.
if I ever said I didn't love it
that would truly be a lie
immortality is the blessing
of watching the universe die.
I'm a God in mortal makings
truly free of conscience mind
not born of a lying ******
but TRUELY one of a kind.
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
These finish lines lining my gut,
Scars of past encounters
Ive ran far too fast and far too long
to still be standing up straight,
My shoulders ripped from corner to corner,
A snake of a lesion lies between them,
hissing and curling itself into some knot,
For years now it has slept,
Cracked and shed it’s skin; strewn in ribbons across the floor,
Leaving nothing but that vice grip reminder
that it is only thing I have left of myself
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
I'm trying to bleed
running from scar to scar
searching for a rip
a trip in the seams
I'm fumbling with locks
and not enough keys
attempting to untie the knots
watching rotted stitches pop as I grip taut cuts and pull...
There's nothing there...
How the **** am I supposed to care
when I can barely bleed
But the chemicals rush too good
flush through my veins
leaving me breathless where I stood
and now I've left
too numb to sort feelings from the mess
But everything is so on track
every lesion every tear every hidden crack
fills in with pills
focus on the thrill
don't bother with the chills
I've gotta keep my head low.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC