"memoires" poems
Nous etions, en cet instant, prisonniers du bonheur.
Heritiers de cette douce mais, o combien lourde, ferveur
Brulant sous cette peau vernie de sueur, de sable et de sel,
Portes, en princes sous les ficelles des tisseuses de ciel.
Nous regardions le gris a nous ecorcher les yeux,
Aimant de la passion infidele du zenith bleu
Le vide encombrant de nos plus incroyables espoirs
Et le remou sans debut ni fin de nouvelles memoires.
Nous les connaissions, ces esprits, vagabonds des mers
Chassant, au milieu des vagues ces humeurs incidencieres,
Celles la meme qui jadis se prenommaient “reves d’enfance”
Et qui depuis de sont transformes en dependence.
Nous les connaissions, et meme si la nature de ce lien
M’est masque par un sacerdoce qui ne sera jamais mien,
Elle me dicte toujours chaque contour de leur lames grises
Qui de cet air sec et fier sont tragiquement eprises
Nous etions, en cet instant prisonniers de beaute,
Celle la meme qui voit nos poumons dechiquetes
A vouloir engouffrer ce monde entier sous nos pores
Que demain a travers ces lettres je puisse a nouveau le voir.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
the music of old fashioned births
is no longer enough
and this thought becomes
a magical opera
where all promenade a century
entertaining memoires
that beg release
like an early summer
that is to late
we shall not retire to a wilderness
for we are a great and radiant sin
like exploding nebulas of the mind
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
liquid love poured from
seeping fissures.
And she tasted his every moment.
He gave his essence so she could
linger within a lifetime of memoires.
And she saw every pain of his existence.
Within her tears were reflections of his
momentary happiness with her.
Knowing she would drain his pain away.
"*To collect the pain of another
is to know the true emotions
of what its like to live within there anguish*"
We only know those we love truly by tasting
the dirt left behind in there footsteps.
Everyone has prints in the past wished brushed away.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
This the inspiration from the same old songs
Painting memories as the sunrise sways to moonlight
Writing out immaculate fantasies in which I long
To see vividly in reality as an endearing sight
Seducing fixated thoughts into a surrealist abstract
A senseless halucination seperated from common fact
Spilling out vague accounts of thoughts days before
Monotonous literal interpretations of living dreams
Dwindling epiphanies leaking from persepections pore
Forgotten pieces of satisfaction that we can't redeem
Except on these tattered memoires I've come to resent
Piles upon piles of dying highs rotting on parchment
Despondent attempts to reanimate decaying emotion
Through a larger than life sincerity hidden in rhyme
Showcasing empty facades and uncertainties devotion
In vain of the first conception that changed as time
Makes a mockering of the beauty lost in every moment
Restless sensations trapped within all the verses spent
Broken words of rememberance that a poem leaves behind
Untimely rhythms growing more useless as days pass by
From the deliverance of meaning in our star-lit minds
To the desperate hour where we can't find a reason to try
We're searching for an excuse to have our names defined
A theme on a story that will mean something once we die
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
I wake up
No breakfast today, life's much to fast.
A cup of coffee will do
So I set the coffee maker,
turn on the shower,
And lose myself in the mirror.
All the while watching,
Waiting.
Waiting for something
But finding nothing in the end
This morning is not my own
It belongs to someone else
I once read on a dollar bill a few years back that
“You can't sing the blues without blood on your hands,
And you've got blood on you hands.”
I spent that dollar but the blood staid on my hands.
We absolve our tender memories
Of what it was like to be children
To not have worry on our brows
To have an unstoppable imagination
which could build floating boats
and mega droids the size of skyscrapers.
An imagination that would make us all ninjas
and princesses and cow boys and girls
Each of us have saved the world with a cardboard swords
and index finger barrels and gun hammer thumbs
Now, we sing requiems of missed messages
All for a few lousy blood soaked dollars.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 2:47 PM UTC
Pour myself another drink
I should stop writing and denounce HP
It has become a voice to my nightly brain fever
More serious disease than syphilis
As it eats away at my brain
I suspect in much the same way
In past a vent for the toxic thoughts off divorce
Preoccupied in bitter tears and hatred
Not seeing its healing potential till now
A display of my emotion
Sometimes intense yet so often lost to others
A soap box of parody that hid a broken heart
An inverse playground of my deepest fears
In that it has many swings and roundabouts
Of love, for others here
Some home so long since gone
Dealings with grief and loss of substance
My family
Now seems like a wrecking ball formed verse when re read
Others I cannot see where I was in my head
Lights on yet not at home
The words don't fit now
I thought STOP!
Delete
But that would be failed testament to myself.
The gin now speaks not me (metaphoric as drinking Bundaberg Guava as good for the kidneys and to wash down my acidophIlus tablets just to clear up that I'm not a wino!)
A bottle opened to embrace
Odd as I can't remember when I last loaded
More so on a school night
I was told to look in not omit myself by helping others
Give me some me time
I have time
I dwell, cogitate to detriment and find no solution
So Yes may be his answer and his inner solace
It is not yet for me.
Goodnight Mrs Kalabash see you in St Louis
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
lines over lapping lines
like my train of thought
I mull over the same things
contemplating exactly what I did wrong
and how I can change the things I did
but you see my memories and thoughts
are not exactly the same as over lapping lines
because you can erase a line
you cant erase your memoires from your mind
and sometimes it feels as if I'm dragging a 50 pound weight
like its wrapped around my legs
so running after you can not be an option for me to choose
I'm weighed down by 50 pounds
of guilt and self hatred
and like lines over lapping lines
ill always come back to the same questions
but trust me I'm trying to pry this weight from myself
but its merely impossible
so ill give up the chase and allow these
lines to overlap
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
"I have a book"
"I have a book with pages within its covers,
I wrote your life on this page,
Each one of you were only ever a one,
Never more, never less,
I scribed upon it your
Birth,
Life,
Death
Was inevitable in that moment, I took
Notes before I wrote this,
Homework was needed as I feed
Myself into your life.
"Hi I'm Paul,
It was but a step to let myself in,
A friend is trusted upon time, let close
To life's
Moment
Beginning
Breath
That I took wasn't mine, but written on
This dried page, red was the colour
That was used, still warm from
Your depleted carcass, no longer life.
You were one of a few blessed
Into eternity's words
No room for error as only one page you had,
Perfection inked on this dried page.
"I have a book"
"I have a book with pages within its covers,
I will write this till the book is full,
And though many fill this carcass of death,
They live on in the brief descriptions of their
Birth,
Life,
Passing
They are recorded in red ink, the blood of
Life now ceased flows on this page,
I am writing a book of memoires
Of live birthed, life lived and then death.
"I licked the pages,
"I know its wrong,
"But they where salty like cracking pork,
You will be immortal in these pages,
But first is you last breath, can you see
What I'm doing keeping your mundane
Life breathing within the pages.
Your flesh is the page, your blood the ink
That tells the story beginning, middle, and your death.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Constant flow,
Diving in and away,
A short stay someplace new,
Everytime
And then it feels,
Like the time is correct,
To change the old order,
Allow to unforget,
The most unfair ******
The right moon to pray,
To have my visions returned,
During the day, anyway,
Only my mask gets burnt
As if my words were heard,
I recall but one place,
Slice open the vein, in blood,
There's some of your taste
One cannot just agree,
That it was horrible,
It is never difficult,
We do what's impossible
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC
Le printemps quand quelqu'un est en amour
La campe où quelqu'un a des memoires
Les jours quand quelqu'un est fachés
L'automne quand quelqu'un est brisé
Le jour ou quelqu'un a pleurée
Les mois quand quelqu'un ne parlés pas
L'été quand quelqu'un est en amour
Les mots que quelqu'un ne disés pas
Les mois après quand quelqu'un l'a dit
La lettre que quelqu'un a donnée
La lettre que quelqu'un a ignorée
Le rejet que quelqu'un a senti
L'ami que quelqu'un a jeté
L'au revoir que quelqu'un n'a pas dit.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:55 PM UTC
All that was seen was the repugnance
That glazed eyes in fearful perception.
As its flesh divided with each scream it released,
But the beast was only generated
Of misunderstood beauty.
"His story is such,
"My mother often said I was beautiful,
"My horns the beauty of nights hidden wonders,
"Be kind unto other misunderstandings,
"I was only five when the flood happened,
"When pink fleshy things landed upon ancient shores,
Mother told me of their coming; we were gentle folk
But they never heeded our response, in frightful
Horror they took Altars life. Burned him in
Thoughtless fear of misunderstood word.
Abomination
Bane
Beasts
Is what they called us. We learned fast as
We were of longer years. Centuries were
Are play ground, but we all birthed once in
Red moons fall. One was the sibling of most births.
"Pink rats, we nicknamed these things on wood,
That floated on our home and breed uncontrolled.
"The flood it was called,
I screamed as flesh stretched, as teeth gnawed
Tears burned on my cheeks as
She lay before my eyes.
Mother
"Mother,
"Mummy,
Was the last words I spoke of her.
No warning the pink skins had gathered
In their fear of our beauty, they all
Looked the same.
"I hate you things,
"Where we see beauty in all things,
"Songs older than your skins were sung,
"Now are stories die with each extinguished word,
Time in their definition had past, but in ours only
A generation if we can call what is left.
We called on our gods but we were unheard.
"I cried myself to sleep in the younger years,
"I now scream at the moons light,
"Mother of nights illumination,
Our gentle persuasion was our failing,
But no more. We took many, didn't discriminate
Of age, we took many to the falling,
To the resting of a souls keep.
But like rats they flourished in our absence.
"We are beasts,
"We have become what was seen,
"In their immature eyes,
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
My mother said these words moments before her
Passing
Falling
Death
Was what happened before my youthful eyes.
"I wish you saw the man I had become,
"Horns bled onyx light,
But now most of the time I stain them
In crimson breath,
I no longer scream.
I leave that to the rats satisfied upon my
Serrated endings,
Horns nourished in blood.
"I was beautiful once,
But now that is gone there is only anger
For those of few years birthed.
I will carve stories into their memoires,
Of the beast that hunted them
To the end of their breath.
I bled each on her mother earth, and she drank.
I am still here in the hidden places,
A legend in word.
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
"I still see some beauty in the world,
I still watch you, heed my words.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Twenty four hours
stretching to a century
Engulfing the four walls
Of the lonely abode
haunting the soul
Of the grief stricken me
An enstranged tear
restless to roll down,
My gloomy, rosy cheek
Steps down from their abode
Leaving behind a trail of
Tell-tale blackest kohl
Memoires of you,
Haunting, transending..
And Oh! this taunting moon
Hiding behind the moving clouds
Peeping out, mocking at
My vunerable, lonely state
Brushing back my wet locks
I softly murmur your name
Against my powerless slender palm
When will you help me out
from this pitiable state
O my Eloquer....!!
© Neeloo 'NeelPari'
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
Detach the mournful profile from youthful embittered emotions ..
Sad , dark hours preceding death are merely curtain calls , rivers that peek inquiry from birth to ocean swept , delta epilogue ..
Reborn of Spring storms , the memoires of blackberry Winter ,
gray day maritime gales , thundershowers of September , yellow daffodils of March foretell the onset of today , gleam in the abiding sunlight of their anticipated hereafter ..
Behold the cliffs whom covet the turquoise exposure of the sea , imperiled flowers that belay their certain capitulation amongst the sharpened bottom .. Gulls shriek in suspend animation , black shorelines echo their resignation , carried across thick ocean breezes ...
Our physical days quite aware of the future at each subtle turn , the payment of debit with every expensive hour ...
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
These words that stay trapped inside my head
As I gnaw at my tongue
Preventing the painfully true "I think I love you" from escaping.
My fears of rejection causing palpations of my heart
Rippling through my veins
Tearing at my lungs
Until I wish to force a knife through my throat.
My thoughts walk through my mind with a killing smile
Sensing discordant anxiety roaring through my chest
Until I am a quivering shadow of emptiness.
What is my purpose in this god forsaken, cruel world?
Within my head, thoughts of suicide echo off the once joyful now turned to black memoires
Of the times I could truly smile.
It's not that I want to die
Its just that my depression eats at my body
Destroying me from the inaide
Until now I can no longer take it and suicide...
Yes! Dreaded suicide has become my only other option
As I no longer can see myself living this intoxicated lidfe
Which drains the heart and soul out of me.
For you see I am a mere human who has lost herself to the bitterness
And your sympathy and words of "its not your fault" make me believe otherwise.
I'm already dead!
Trapped in a shadowy figure of a girl you all think you know.
Beaten down until the point of unbearable decision and pain.
Suicide is my only option.
Its not that I wanted to die, but I can no longer live!
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
Hair nets and hand-me-downs,
Striped garb with strings
Wise men in scrubbing gowns,
Angels with wings
Pin ****** and pressure cuff,
Disarming chat
Face mask and gassy stuff,
Drugs by the vat
Dull aches like bicycles
Peddling up lanes,
Cold streaks like icicles
Rush through the veins,
Laid back and lazily
Watching the dance,
Head floating hazily
Into a trance
Woozily waking up,
Wobbly and drunk
Water to sip and sup,
Memories sunk
Balance returning when
Loved ones are phoned,
Recovery over, then
Time to go home
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
These words that stay trapped inside my head
As I gnaw at my tongue
Preventing the painfully true "I think I love you" from escaping.
My fears of rejection causing palpations of my heart
Rippling through my veins
Tearing at my lungs
Until I wish to force a knife through my throat.
My thoughts walk through my mind with a killing smile
Sensing discordant anxiety roaring through my chest
Until I am a quivering shadow of emptiness.
What is my purpose in this god forsaken, cruel world?
Within my head, thoughts of suicide echo off the once joyful now turned to black memoires
Of the times I could truly smile.
It's not that I want to die
Its just that my depression eats at my body
Destroying me from the inaide
Until now I can no longer take it and suicide...
Yes! Dreaded suicide has become my only other option
As I no longer can see myself living this intoxicated lidfe
Which drains the heart and soul out of me.
For you see I am a mere human who has lost herself to the bitterness
And your sympathy and words of "its not your fault" make me believe otherwise.
I'm already dead!
Trapped in a shadowy figure of a girl you all think you know.
Beaten down until the point of unbearable decision and pain.
Suicide is my only option.
Its not that I wanted to die, but I can no longer live!
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
My memoires like a juke box, I insert
a thought to play out those memories
stored with in my mind. New ones I
can view no long stored play out in HD.
Then we have those stored at the back,
old memories some long forgotten then
a coin, smell of music last heard inserted
in with some change of thought, and
played out in my mind on an LP slower
than the new ones but still seen quite vividly.
My mind is a juke box of memoires, it plays
old and new, some of the old ones with
out sound but the pictures I see are just
as good of long forgotten. The new ones
stored my jukebox stores my memories
for me to listen to and see, I put in a thought
and I see the memory of old as if it was
only remembered yesterday.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
Collections litter boxes
unkempt
in the corners of my room.
filtering through snowstorms
of white laced with scribbled verse.
Memoires sewn in tapestry of
what was wondering within
the cotton of thought and the
needle of motion of my pencil.
There are momentary pauses
laced with eyes gauging words.
Then there are crumbled echoes
of what now litter a tiny bin.
I walk from the room of my conscious
verses some unkempt in the corner,
others slung into a void of rejection.
I may visit momentary , but now I write.
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
A song came on the radio
a memory from afar
a sadness yet a smile of mine
come on feel the noise
I had to turn it up so loud
my ears began to sing
as music from my very past
brought tears upon my chin
I thought that was the start of starts
to start my weekend off
but no this radio gave much more
for ears and memoires
More tears appeared as Freddie sang
brought thoughts of long ago
my mum gone out so dad did shout
come on my son its time
as our radiogram blasted out our song
repeated many days
More tears appeared as song was sung
i nearly crashed my car
such thoughts of times so long ago
My memories in a jar
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 4:29 AM UTC
Down cobbled rocks formed
From an abrasive past,
Footsteps gently graced upon these
Pebbles likened to smooth skin
Counting to the investable finish,
As everything starts
As everything culminates in a end.
But like a inquisitive child
You stepped on those stones
As darkness guided you further,
the light became an illusion,
Like a star behind you never fading
Just distant memoires.
And yet you still stepped slower
Guided by the smoothness of
The steps beckoning you.
But then the waters that one reseeded
Feathered upon the shore.
But you stepped further to
Oblivions calling, each footprint
Was your movement undecided,
And the waves played happily
Unpon the crest and it washed upon
Every one rippling joyfully
As each was consumed
And then you realized to late.
Your path was an illusion of
Darkness, and it swallowed
What was solid, obscurity consumed
All that was, time was stolen.
In those moments as a clock
Froze and death greeted
And there were steps no more
Just cold onyx as I sank to the
Bottom of this silent oblivion.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
"You're insane!" she screamed, the darkness emphasizing the exclamation point on a two lane country road with the headlights turned off. At 60 miles an hour, the moon mocked her hysteria illuminating only white lines on the asphalt resembling heart beats on a hospital monitor. If the blips stopped, so did our lives.
I laughed believing no one can die at 21. The difference between terror and confidence is a little circle. There is unjustifiable bravery if you hold the wheel in your hands. Begging was followed by crying (which was usually my role on earlier dates) where somehow I found joy in the cruelty. I had driven the road a hundred times before and knew the "Humpty Dumpty" **** and when to hit the gas to make her stomach leave her mouth. Each curve had its own reward and unforgiving consequence. I was sure I smelled *** but that was okay. It was her car.
Years have past and those memoires had been filed away until I spoke to her the other day.
"When are you going to take me for a ride?"
I should have been torn for a meaning. I'm sure she meant both.
"Lights on or lights off?" I quipped.
"Surprise me."
Lights off.
She screamed twice.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
doubt they will ever
be written, certainly
not this day, the
thirteenth of anniversary.
there will be reams, and ink
satined fingers, hair assunder,
wild eyes for the work. it is hotter,
we stick to linen
sheets. remember the words
from first, to last,
to write.
it will be a soliary task,
where no one enters,
consumes our tea.
the memoires may be written,
in the garden.
sbm.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
Save the Date
O how I do hope you will Save The Date!
It’s a special occasion, so don’t be late
Be sure to sign in with the guard at the gate
I leave on the twelfth; I simply can’t wait
That’s when I’ll be executed by the State.
*Registered at Coffins ‘n’ Stuff, Thibodeaux’s Funeral Home,
& Jardin d’Memoires and Gift Shoppe*
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 2:15 PM UTC
Regression of shallow songs
that repeat on the reflection
of what was versed in sight.
My thoughts discerning on
impressions that are dissected
within my illusions of fact.
My memoires are tissue paper
regrets that are wiped away,
but never clean the stain of thought.
I have shrapnel stuck with the
halls of my recollection that tell
me I was wrong to live when I died.
Could you sleep on the shards of
what I swam within, I'm a breath
away from slumber, "I wish for death.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC