"lessness" poems
i.
unfiltered asiatic plaything seeks
hypoactive cradle technocrat
evicting meaningful poach,
mendacious transcripts of
past events found in his
memoryless playhouse.
poplar crowd scribbles observations
outbound punch of laughter
sighs to the scrambled, ethnic
postgrad nation.
microfiche telegram exploits
meaning to deeper courtesies
current surrendered upon
entry.
ii.
psychotropic sustenance
fizz thru ***** vein corridor
secret mission lifestyle
learning fast in enormous packs of
tiny lies.
spew logic chagrin mediated
bloodstain; cerebus twitching
outside of beingself.
iii.
heart ceases,
sacred whitepaint moans.
o infidel,
strike thrice; a chord
binding us- nasty, *****
beads bleeding rich.
cloaked bushes tasting,
hisses cured human oaks;
tapered horns that sob,
casting waved heels.
iv.
dawn fallen, only concrete
possible now. separated by
thousands of what is not,
shocks disintricate; undwindling
patriots mailing lessness,
laughter sounds fetching
offband pitch.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
She's the ultimate mistress
Boys and girls bend to her, just to get a little sample of her power
They wait their whole life to feel her presence. Go through their whole life, trying to track her down so they can finally meet her. So that they can finally feel, well, something. So they can pretend their life was worth something
She turns good men into fools, and fools into good men
She turns good girls bad, and bad girls good
She doesn't care about money or success
But watch out, for the minute she has you wrapped up in her game, she'll ***** you over, because, well, she's the player who invented it, and you have to play by her rules.
She leaves you broken. Destroyed into a thousand pieces.
She left me breathless, restless with a feeling of lessness
Because I feel in love with her and not him
Feel in love with what we could be,
but not him
With a blink of an eye, she's on to the next.
The same pattern that has formed many times and will again and again and again.
Because while she stays evergreen, I'll grow old and became one with the earth.
She'll attend my funeral through my family and friends
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
Silence can surpass your conscious lessness
Silence can scream out in your heart
Objectifying the reality
Ostracizing the fiction
Beware of silence
For serendipitous can be the moment, in trice of silence
Serene can be the moments in trice of silence
Silence sails amid the slithering stories
For if you can observe, you can be silent
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
I looked at her eyes every night,
but she never did notice despite
that I couldn’t take my eyes away
from her soul’s shining light.
What if that thing you always said
you wanted to keep, but not in your head.
Just went on a merry trip to beyond
with an action that is pleasing widespread.
I looked at her eyes every night,
but she never did notice despite
that I couldn’t take my eyes away
from her soul’s shining light.
Slipping through the folds of life
we try to end this grievous strife.
Can she not really see what I feel?
So I just tear away with this knife.
I looked at her eyes every night,
but she never did notice despite
that I couldn’t take my eyes away
from her soul’s shining light.
Tears, dripping down with haste,
From my cheek, to the red they raced.
I can’t see as my vision blurs
From the blood, now a waste.
Slipping through the folds of life
we try to end this grievous strife.
Can she not really see what I feel?
So I just tear away with this knife.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 11:21 AM UTC
If consistency makes an artist,
then I shall never be one.
If it is pain,
then I once was one.
If it is love,
then why am I not still one?
Is true happiness not enough to fill an artist?
Is there more inspiration to be found in the dark- when there is nothing to see and everything to feel?
Has any artist ever been truly happy?
Must one suffer for their art?
More so, must art be a burden?
Then, was Christ, himself, an artist?
(My God, the burden he had to bear.)
Was Nietzsche right- that, poets exploit their experiences?
Why do we deprive ourselves of contentment, of sleep, of peace of mind?
Why do we **** our own bodies, poison our livers, starve our own souls in the pursuit of a muse?
We are, all of us, restless,
half-empty,
half-witted,
half-hearted,
fools,
that have fallen in love with pretty words.
Idolators, we are.
Sometimes, I wonder, if we're afraid that silence can ****
Or that, if we're not screaming at the top of our lungs, we're not alive.
Idle pens are handicaps.
Idle minds- cancer.
We're all dying not to become utilitarians.
Ugly.
Artless.
lifeless?
We'll die just to hold onto the shadow of our own hopes and dreams.
If it is commitment that makes an artist,
then I shall never be one.
If it is wreck-lessness,
then I once was one.
If it is thoughtful articulation,
then why am I not still one?
I now know that,
I am not an artist.
I will not break my own heart.
I will not cut my own throat just to amplify my voice.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
Thin wafer of silicon
Placed on my outstretched tongue
Giver of life(lessness)
Finitude is beautiful though
****** digits splayed
One thumb grows from my tongue
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
There never seems
To be enough
Seconds in a minute
Or
Minutes in an hour
Or
Hours in a day
When it comes to this journey called "life."
There always seems to be
Somewhere to go
Or
Someone to see.
If it's not here, then it's there.
If it's not her, then it's them.
I frantically rush from one hour
To the next
CrammingCrushing
Everylittlething
Until there is nothing left but
Me and a hundred of thoughts,
A myriad of worries,
And a pyramid of plans.
But it's then that I take a breathe.
I take a breath
& remember You-
The Great Beginning
And the End.
For even but a moment
It is just the Father and I-
A father and his daughter.
I rest at the feet of Jesus
Like Mary once did.
There is no agenda
No rush
No need to be anywhere but here.
I am humbled by His presence for
He radiates
Love,
Holiness,
Self-lessness,
Patience-
All that I am not.
I tell Him of my day
And the fears that have taken root:
The fear of failing,
The fear of disappointment,
The fear of not being good enough.
"It's too much!"
I cry out.
"I can't do it!
There's too many things and not enough me."
But my Father,
He tells me to list.
He tells me of how He has a plan-
A plan of joy
Not worry;
A plan of peace,
Not distress;
A plan of victory,
Not defeat.
"Child, yes, you are small,
But I am big-
Bigger than your plans,
Bigger than your hopes,
Bigger than your fears.
So take comfort in Me
When life is not at rest.
Find solace during the story
While knowing that I calm the seas."
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
comes a time to turn to put the feet of the heart
forward step at a time each foot shod in time lessness
and space lessness
comes a space to hold to place the hands of the soul
around the body’s tabernacle each hand soothed and
soothing
comes a view to see to cast the eyes of the being
beyond the mind’s walls built by No without
Know ingness
comes a time to cluster these in courage and trust
to move away from the air lessness of shallow being
Toward
to step off the craig onto Love
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
See that Smile
Like Diamond
Among the Dust of the Stars.
I don't know you
But your smile
reflex your Heart
It shines like
A Thousand Suns
In Collision.
It's Light, Gives Life
It's Ray, Gives Hope
It's Contagious, Gives Riches
It's Core, his Love
It's Word, Gives Creation
.
.
.
Time with it's Season Came
After the collision
She leaves
Thoughtless
Emotionless
Motionless
Tearless
Lightless
Bold
Loveless
Livelessnessly Like a Tree
without a taproot
To Hold,
To Feed.
It's So cold
Why can't you
come back to Us.?.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
Marking my worth[lessness]
by defacing my template
with the corroded hands of others
who spend their time chiseling away at
life’s most imperfect perfections
Embroidered with a cross stitch
ravelling us all together in one big quilt
showcasing one’s collected patches
Finding myself unable to convey
my lack of conversation skills
or the assumptions that I already know
and everything I could do is better than this
and I deserve better than this--
what I choose to accept
will never meet my own standards
as my standards are based on accepting others
but my other side lives in a fantasy
and believes what genuine souls tell me
which is I “deserve better than this”
Maybe I don’t, in a parallel universe
I can’t accept what I want to believe
because I can’t explain why I accept
“less than I deserve”
when I’m unsure of what I deserve in the first place
What deeds have I done to merit great things?
Is my moral compass pointing north or south, east or west?
Does it matter when each way leads to eternal rest?
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
the solitary
...................drifting..............
of days!
....................of nations!
..................of all the people in the world
the shifting shapes!
.........................the "shape-shifting"
men
turning into
............................mythological creatures
or into vile beasts!
it is hard to see anymore
looking thru our self begetting haze
of indiscrimination
and value-lessness
it is hard to feel anymore
we are calling and calling
but we do not dare answer back!
we know that what we need
is "something-that-we-lack"
we know that we must
"learn-to-yield"
but we fear to seem weak
we fear "to-seem-incomplete"
AND THUS IT IS
AND THUS WE ARE
drifting
...........................
with the drift of the day
the drift of the nations
of all the peoples in the world
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 10:39 AM UTC
Oh sweet love, why do you hide in the shadows of my own self-doubt? Why do you torment me with images of perfection and perseverance when the human conditions stands in contradiction of cinematic flawlessness? How do I look beyond your digital providence when your organic counterpart lacks your provocative nature?
I follow storyline after storyline of heartache and sorrow as my heart fills with every beating note of your symphony of wishful yearning and lust. Oh you are my downfall love. You are my pain. You are all I have to lose and gain when the walls of my own sanity come crumbling down around me.
Love, your bipolar benevolence holds me up and throws me down. I look to the rain for sympathy but find the same disconnect I have with love as it has with the ocean. Your fickle grasp on my nights force me into days of ungodly self-loathing and pity towards my own self-awareness.
How I wish the elixir of forgotten memories and combustion of nullified senses were enough to guide me towards a lifetime of simplicity. But their medicinal and destructive nature hold only a reminder of my own impatience and impotence towards love. Numbing waves of philosophical hypocrisy banging against my brain in the hopes their square pegs and round holes can someday work out a solution to this ever-unsolvable problem.
Why can I not find you love? Why can I not find your ever-elusive shades of grey in the happiness of the common placed world? Why can I not find solace in your warm embrace and southing whispers of reassurance throughout my trying days and nights? Why do I look to you for understanding when it is the very thing I lack when chasing you?
Love, sweet love, I am tired. My boyish ambitions and mature desires are at war with one another. They strip me of sleep and forge images of my dwindling past and uncertain present. Merging forgotten losses and that which I crave in the present, only to show me how much I lack in controlling of my passions. You, my sweet love, are going to be my destruction.
You, my sweet love, are going to be my demise and my rebirth. Hope has no fullness or lessness in this illogical conundrum that has my mind spinning. You have no control over your influence and yet, influence my decisions beyond the scope of my understanding.
Love, my treacherous friend, how can you be unaware of your unpredictable power and remain a foreseeable authority over me?
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
today, you seem
to swim consciously
in the blurry happenings
absorptive
of both their chaotic canopies
and their knotted stilts
in substantial intertwining
your recent form, you
effervescing lightness, as i deep-delve
into your freeform spectacle
in scribes and silence
is
a contemplated combobulation
in almost a hidden haziness: there's
but a fiery flame within
in boundless lucidity
of the flaring galactical suns
and the sacred smoking eyeblack
smears around from cores, the blackwhole scripts
that you realized
and still in the go as you grow
full and null and full and null
and so. verse traverse
your phasal swings
unto that yielding amplitude
that one unreturning
singularity
.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 4:32 AM UTC
O
--///--
/ \
Soft the child there
Our sadness soon to be
The only story --- in town
••
We speak of
LOVE FOREVER
But tomorrow is dead
And so it shall never be here !
( thus we so safe in our superficiality !)
••
ENOUGH !
--
We seem like
Computer generated hallmark greeting cards !
Or
Mind - **** propaganda from the C I A!
Designed to keep the children loveless
And in THEIR PLACE
••
DEATH MASQUE SOUL-LESSNESS
Soon no-one
Will even have a face
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
You - and everyone else,
You're always saying that I'm
Nice,
and Smart,
and Good.
That I do the right thing, always. That I'm effortlessly selfless, constantly. That I'm a good person.
And I always shake my head. Say, 'Thank you,' but 'No, I'm really not.'
"You're being modest," always what I get.
Never thought I was being honest, did you?
And now, now you know.
That I'm a coward; too afraid to stand by your side.
Ever wonder why I stayed in the background?
Back with the shadows, safe, hidden from view, refusing the spotlight?
Well, now you know why.
I'm not brave, like you.
I can tell what's right, and what's not,
I can feel my oxygen slowly being siphoned off, the longer I wait,
I can make the right thing happen, eventually,
But not* like* you.
You, with your emotions,
and recklessness,
With your utter confidence in yourself,
and instant reactions,
You're brilliant, like that.
But so, so not me.
By tomorrow, of course, I'll have something figured out.
I'll talk to all the people who I'll need to back me up.
I'll think out every possible scenario, figure out every answer.
I'll wear my mask, so no helplessness, no desperation, seeps out.
Where you failed with pure emotion, I'll use cold, hard, logic.
And I'll succeed, and tell no one what I did.
That doesn't change the fact, that I faded into the shadows,
and let you stand there alone.
I waited, of course, but not close by enough for anyone not looking,
to see.
And now you know, who I am.
Bet you expected me to stand with you - too bad I let you down, too bad, I always will.
Good thing, well, now you know.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
a map of skulls and souls
reaped along routes of trade
a rat burrows into the demon's pen
of blissful greed and greed-
ing ignorance agreeing with
mindlessness, taken to com-
plying with heartlessness
shaved with soul-
lessness
into an empty machine--
a killing being
sentient of nothing but
blood battered faces and clean
of all graces--
a sweet decay of inhabitable spaces
do the animals care?
we decide for them
the discussion unheard, buried
in a coffin of laughing reproach
nailed shut, impaled
with ifs, ands, and buts,
but--
what if we didn't?
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 5:45 AM UTC
"Credit? Debit?" / "Mastercard."
Card goes in. Entering PIN.
BeepBeepBeepBeep. Remove card.
Processing—I listen
to the cold ambient music.
"Thank you, and have a nice day."
"You too." / The cashier sounds sick.
I have nothing more to say.
The same words repeated day
after day. a ritual
antipathetic display
of our common plastic soul–
lessness.
May 18, 2021
May 18, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC