"modifications" poems
The Hawker Hurricane is a British fighter design from the 1930s. Some 14,000 Hurricane and Sea Hurricane fighters and fighter-bombers were built by the end of 1944。 August 1940 brought what has become the Hurricane's shining moment in history: The Battle of Britain. RAF Hurricanes accounted for more enemy aircraft kills than all other defenses combined, including all aircraft and ground defenses. Later in the war, the Hurricane served admirably in North Africa, Burma, Malta, and nearly every other theater in which the RAF participated. The Hurricane underwent many modifications during its life, resulting in many major variants, including the Mk IA, with interchangeable wings housing eight 7.7mm (0.303in) guns;the Mk IIC, with a Merlin ** engine; the Mk IID, a tankbuster with two 40mm anti-tank guns plus two 7.7mm guns. During the war, Hurricanes were sold to Egypt, Finland, India, the Irish， Persia, Turkey and the USSR Air Corps.More in http://www.rangorango.com/124-series-c-1_5.html
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******
2
her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall
3
she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do wacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts “tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “tucson 3-step” ****** perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love worries for Leslie
4
tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
When I attempt to think about my future, I know I can't. I know, I can only do what I can now to piece together my future like a puzzle. I want to get on T, I want to cut my hair shorter than my parents allow, I want more body modifications, I want to have a completely flat chest, but at the moment, I can't imagine what I'd turn into. A butterfly I'm not able to picture yet. I am at the moment, a small catapillar, not being able to pass for the gender I wish. She's. Hers'. That's not what I want directed towards me. I wants he's and they's. Male and neutral term are what I want my friends to use. Not my birth name, Kit. Kit Lucas Zachary is what I'll become when I get older and scrounge the money together to make that change possible. I must change myself and bold myself into what I want to be happy, even if that means I lose people, I can deal. If they don't agree with how I feel, they don't need to be in my life anyway. I can't say that I'm a boy yet, I can't say I'm pansexual yet. The violence that is occurring against my LGBTQ+ people locks my lips together to my parents, and possibly some of my friends, because I don't want them to be my demise. In this hick state of Texas. My chest binder must be put up due to high summer tempatures, it's too hot to have on so I can't feel at home in my own body. I hate my feminine face, and my father uses double standard, making me shave, making me feel naked and incorrect. I feel incomplete, like I haven't had my right growth spirt, my right puberty. "Oh yeah, she-" makes me want to put a bullet in my head, but it I pulled the trigger I know my family wouldn't understand why. "Hey girl!" don't look, don't turn, they aren't talking about you. But, once I'm an adult with a steady income, I hope to become the person I wish to be.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
a silent laugh—
an inside joke no one else can catch,
trying to take flight over the height of a dream.
but what is a dream if it only stings the eyes?
an eye sore, instead of wings to soar.
...I am a prisoner of flesh and skeleton,
fueled by passion, smuggling scars beneath
my skin; blood turned ammunition,
bones as empty shells clattering the floor.
...I am animal, and I am engine—
_factory default,_ released into a world
obsessed with modifications.
we bolt wings like spoilers onto cars,
__spoiled for choice,__ but never to lift—
only to weigh us down.
heavy disguises, dressed up as flight.
and still, we dream of air.
still, we hunger to rise.
such a cruel irony:
built for motion, yet forever
grounded.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
Sometimes, if I try, I hum between the tumbling
Hills of the world bracing domesticated beasts.
They graze and grunt all over again,
Entering slumbers following the daily sweep
Of lactic creeks, thin enough to guide tree roots.
Dusk is explained by the party of two, embracing the dividing sun.
Look left to see coral reef skies swim attempting to grasp what is to the right of the Sun:
Silhouettes outlining prayers flattening dimensions of rugged Mosques
Still dusty from wheat flour and patterned by uncooked lentils, that
Slipped through missing seams of Burlap, blackened from the hearth
Malleable as a result of dependency.
Though only half of my sight functions, I reason that
Earth shifts without you. Watching centuries and some odd
Years of changes, I yearn to know where you have gone.
I peer from the peacock’s tail, feeling the pulse of the
World tick away as the fearless pray to someone new.
Your countenance, I interlaced with feathered fingers
Depicts movements, curves. A shame to be without
Language to fill the contours of a nebulaic expression
Or swindling modifications.
You put me here. My eyes anyway.
Expecting me to retire along with buildings for your worship
Powdery paint has spilled and faded along with
Others who have modified your appearance, their someone new.
Even as the shadows swells
A million replicates of Io, moo and sway home, tired from the
Beating sun, to which eyes remain fixed.
One momentary memory visits.
Vision simulate traces of wonder, travelling on
Pathways believed to be conquerable. The people have learned
What I have not. They pause, breathe.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Step 1: Be as anxiety ridden as possible.
Get a bladder infection because you are too scared to ask the teacher to use the restroom.
Fail your Algebra class because you fear that if you tell her you are confused, she will laugh at you.
Everyone will laugh at you.
Wear dresses and frilly skirts because you are scared to come out as transgender.
Your mind will mock you with thoughts along the lines of,
“ You dont deserve to be a boy.”
Just go along with it.
Let the words bounce in your head like children in a bouncy house.
Do not reach for the ibuprofen bottle.
You see your mind will need to be as messy as your heart.
Therefor your heart will have to crumble into an avalanche.
DO NOT PICK UP THE PIECES.
You will need to be addicted to starbucks and body modifications.
Do not get anything less than a Venti because if you do not get your daily dose of caffeine you will go into withdrawls.
You need to modify your body because it is the only thing you can control.
Step 2: Make your hair as colorful and bright as possible because then maybe your mom will understand the fact that you are gay.
Maybe if you turn your head into a walking pride flag you will not have to see the look of disappointment coat her face when you step out of the closet.
I know what youre thinking because I have been told this before.
“But honey, the closet is made for clothes.”
Yeah youre **** right but the closet is also the only place you can hide your chest binder and boxers,
They will sit right next to your pushup bras.
Step 3: Feel everything.
Feel every single thing as deeply as you can because if you do not,
Then how will you get a messy heart?
And to have a messy mind your heart must match like the couple shirts he bought you on your one year anniversery.
Do not love him.
He will break your heart two years in and cram the words
“I simply dont want you” down your throat
And you may not cry.
You may not show him you are hurting because then he will know you care.
Then he will know you are wrapped around his finger as tightly as you can.
Step 4: Do not fall in love.
Even if it is simply with the brush strokes on a canvas.
Do not fall in love with anyone before you fall in love with yourself because for the past two years, toxic waste has filled your veins.
Do you know how much it hurt to bleach him out of your mind?
You have to scrub his fingerprints off of your body.
You will become raw.
It is okay to be raw,
You just have to learn to heal yourself.
No more coating the burn wounds with promises of forever.
No more temporary treatments.
For the sake of your sanity,
You must fall in love with yourself,
Before you can learn to not love him.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
All those eyes
Slowly shedding their skin
Making small circles around each other’s
Substance
The look it seemingly undresses the nights
Ghosts
A blood fest of fists surrounds your head
The aroma of darkness covering my placenta dreams
An empty gun
Lays adjacent to the rooms open view
While in distracted light there appears my punch-drunk sanity
As it devours (all) the shadows
An uneven floor that injects my blood stream with dust and hollow words
Stumbling over you was the answer to my loss of hope
Like running thru graveyards and speaking in silence through tiny pinhole
Mouths and forever living and not finding what may be in stored
The afterglow of solitude
The disjointed smiles that grasps for air
Under your enormous wings of blame
My tonic suggestion to incubate my after birth words
A stillness of heart that shackles
A memory and mortar apprehension I have not escaped
In the long hallways of your past
My own blank stare dissolves in the sunlight
Then it was you
Inhabiting the smaller cracks of my skin
Taking my hurt and
Willingly
Being beautiful in the madness of blind faith
A sordid ball of ugly lights which glisten
And down the path where it leads
To me
You can place your gift to the dead crowd like
Unraveled wire touching your lips
A severed look of ignorance
Beings of soft shells
And broken by spinal cord modifications
The lustful grasp shrouding your heart
Makes its way taking shortcuts through graveyards
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
My chin rests on the dent of my palm,
I am hopefully staring into space
where the blur of the white wall that is before me
becomes an empty palette for me to draw on
to paint a map of the future,
of the roads and paths and routes
untidily scribbled on the
blank canvas plotting my dreams
with sketchy untidy thoughts with blurred out edges
of a vision full of innocence and lack of experience
but making the raw marks easily amendable
leaving room for mature modifications
as my dreams ripen
I am dreaming of days that will come,
Dreaming of ways that will let me become
But our dreams are like clouds,
They are made in the air
They keep floating with time
Further from us
To distant places where they will be lost
And we will be left staring at an empty sky
Not knowing in which direction to go.
If we sit idle,
Lying in the grass, staring away
expecting the cloud to descend one day
We are mistaken
because dreams are meant to live in the skies
high up above which is why we strive
and achieve for higher ground
because if they were as prevalent as the flowers
on the verdant grass
anyone could pluck it without any stress
but like clouds our dreams travel with time
mature with wisdom and age
the further they blow away
They become faint distant memories
so don’t just sit and stare
and always be aware
gather pieces from your life, and create a platform
pieces of experience
that will stack up to create
a stairway bringing you closer
to help you attain your cloud shaped dream
and when you are near, hold it close,
nurture it and help it grow
and never let it go
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
Never knew how many there are
I see them now, and notice no other car
and compare them to his: the red jeep in the exact same
parking space, every morning, as clean as a cup out of the dishwasher
and I noticed the modifications he made
and now he travels, away from me
and I know he'll never come back to me
And someday I won't notice anymore jeeps
and I will know deep down to my core
that I didn't really like him
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Oh yes
In no way do I trust in
Adoration of phenomena’s
By no means would I sacrifice my spirit
Yet resting in your presence, is something benevolent
Like watching the day over take the night
Your auras the purest ecstasy
I realized I’ve been denied entrance to the garden of Eden for a millennia
I’ve been refused a seat at the celebration
And have been standing out looking in for eternity
Now I’m bowing on my knees to these ideals
But standing tall these are mine
And now I’m in a position allowing me to veer toward all these undeniable modifications I must make
This is my sanctuary
My Gethsnamy
Your voice, a gentle breeze
Your touch a calming heat
I can see I’ve been held back
From exploring new land
Noticing I have never even pondered the existence of what I see in front of me
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
Characters: Speaker, Real Estate Agent
Setting: A house for sale
The real estate agent has shown the kitchen and now enters the main bedroom and begins to explain the latest modifications. The speaker is not at the moment aware of the agent’s speech. Instead the speaker’s attention is caught by the closet which is opened.
Speaker: (Interrupting the agent)
You know, save for the musky odor
And dust collecting on the top shelf,
The closet, back in my mom’s house
The one in what was my room,
Is bare.
I always strained to keep the door shut
With all of my belongings pressing ‘gainst it.
Its bare now.
No trace of what once resided in there.
Just bare.
Real Estate Agent: Well, this closet is the biggest in the house so there is no need to worry about an overabundance of belongings.
Speaker: (Smiles)
It might be hard to believe
But I longer need
A closet.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
Am not the boy I used to be
I grew up
But what makes me.. me
Still intact, just with few modifications
I've seen life a bit
I've felt a few things too
"Love, heartbreak, panic attack, disappointment but deeply loneliness..
I learnt how to be alone
And I've seen depression in the dark
I've come face to face with my demons
I understood me back then
But now, just a few
I've understood what sorry really stands for
I've tasted the bitterness of being hurt
I really grew up
I've seen the bittersweet of things
The good, the bad & the extreme
I was once whole
Filled with ecstasy
Eye's filled rainbows
But now it's mostly grey
The rainbow's lost in my darkness
And I know not what to do
That's how broken I am
I grew up, didn't I?.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:11 PM UTC
Well in socio,
I was asked what is my identity?
I thought,
sure I know plenty,
but actually,
what the hell do I know,
am I build up of what people think around me?
Well this is what I think,
you don't have to agree,
I don't really know who I am to you.
To me I'm a unique bloke,
physically short and strong due to painful labour and exercise,
mentally I'm ****** up due to obsessions,
visions and life experiances,
I don't hate much,
danger,
drugs,
wankers,
and body modifications,
so you're alright with me if you keep yourself clean.
I'm a contemporary saxophonist,
with a bit of old school classical,
my ****** dyslexia is my downfall.
I'm a moral monster,
just remember that,
I still have some faith,
so cut me some slack,
I just want you to be gorgeous and safe,
whoever you are,
I may have a large mouth,
but it's a wise one,
my real name is Jack.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
"what do you want?"
A meaningless question
with doubtful answers.
"What do you want?"
I want to walk outside without
having to feel worthless.
I want to be able to be taken seriously,
despite my taste in fashion or body modifications.
I want to be able to love someone and not
hide my passion because you wouldn't approve.
What I want is to be accepted for me,
nothing more and nothing less.
Just me.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
Serenity
I'm there
I feel safe
I am safe
It's all in my head
I think you've forgotten who I am
Your too conceited to give a ****
All you can think about is how much you rubbed off on me
I drive like a crazy person
Play video games
Read comics
Listen to our music
Watch our shows
Alone
You think I'm trying to impress you
Is it working?
I think you've forgotten who I was
Do you remember?
I do
Because I'm still her
Yeah, so there's a few modifications
My hair is shorter (You told me you liked short hair-- I cut it for you ****
I'm thinner (I know it drives you crazy how good I look)
I believe in God (Don't ever take credit for that)
I've got new friends (they like me better than you)
Oh I'm sorry
Am I hurting your feelings?
Try being in love with someone who doesn't love you back anymore
Who avoids you
And treats you like *******
You once said that you "want to spend the rest of your life uplifting others"
You can't be selective
I was once all you thought about
You used to think I was beautiful
Will you do me a favor?
Look at me
Spend a day with me
What?
Are you afraid?
Yes
Yes, you are
Why?
Beacause you'll fall in love all over again
What?
You never fell out of love?
Then why did you tell me that you did?
I must put you to bed
Serenity
I am safe
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
I once had a flash of inspiration
To birth a new invention
Did a lot of investigation
Gathered a lot of information
Saw positive indications
Boosted my motivation
There was a team formation
People of same dedication
We had brainstorming sessions
Listed all the specifications
Began the implementation
Encountered a few obstructions
Made necessary modifications
Noticed a couple defections
Applied the proper corrections
And we had a successful completion!
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
there's no point liking your own
poetry, esp. if you html is infested
with modifications after you publish
something: writing isn't exactly
drink-driving... and when that happens
you start to hate what you write,
and oddly enough, it makes you "motivated"
to write some more, because you're never
satisfied... and being satisfied with your
work will never give you permission to
create more, notice the narcissists in the craft:
five poems later... nothing to add, self-love
takes over the necessary self-loathing,
self-love from over-editing prior
something being read by someone else,
self-loathing and the embarrassment
of having to edit while you, yourself, notice
the mistakes (in this case some weird
futurism of an a.i. in the html encoding,
got to get me a screen shot of the before and after),
added to that... i write of a personal life,
and as it turns out... my life has become more
personal than i would have thought,
i guess writing from the gut of experience
adding a few fictive colours to make creases
in books will make your life a life of a robinson crusoe:
adding to the fact that you never idealise,
whether experienced or not experienced -
idealising is peppered with only thinking about it.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
Women's insecurities
can lead women
to do many
dramatic changes,
wether being good
or
bad changes,
but it always lead
to dramatic
changes.
Now,
it's always the feeling
of depression,
of wanting
self-body modifications
that lead women
to go
under the needle.
And sure,
there's absolutely nothing
wrong with doing
some
modifications
in one-self,
but that could also lead
to
an addiction;
no different than
smoking or drinking.
But there's always that void
that women
just want to fix
in order for them
to finally be pleased
when
a man is not
complimenting
their
beautiful imperfections.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
(Original 2/28/16)
I am but a shadow
I exist on the edge of light
And dark
Get too close and I disappear
Silently I await
Moving swiftly only to the beat of my own heart
(The below was added 3/3/16. Tell me if it fits or sounds stupid.)
I am haunted by ghosts that have lived in my past
I am bound by the shackels of the darkness
When will I be released?
I am constantly following a being
That is no longer me...
I am but a soul
Stuck in the shadows
Dear self...hear my cry
Let me in
Before we are both destroyed
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
It started with him,
Not so long ago
A moment in the past where
My feelings were confusing.
It started with him,
I wanted to read him over again
And analyze him,
And take notes
Figure out each phrase
And memorize themes
About him
I wanted to learn about
Every aspect
And inspect every former draft of him
And figure out why there were
Modifications and changes of him
I wanted to write him down,
Soak pen ink in his name
So I wrote poetry.
I fell in love with him
I fell in love with destructive poetry.
And then I realized one day
My metaphors were getting more passionate
But he was not,
I spent more time on line spacing
Than planning my space around him
I became wittier with words
While his jokes were getting old
He became ideas
That were better expressed by me
So I continued to write
Better poetry
And it’s not ending with him
But now with
Lovelier things,
About lovelier people
Like me-
Who I have learned about
Who I have seen more of
Who I am not afraid to change
And correct
Because of mistakes and errors
Who I have written of
Who I have written.
Singed ink in my name.
Because poetry started with him,
But it’s ending with me.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
She found the future
proof
of her illusion;
evidence,
experience,
suggesting
modifications, to wit
striking capitals
and modifiers--
gone,
lacking
color,
shape
and time.
Jul 15, 2022
Jul 15, 2022 at 10:27 AM UTC
Crew Quarters...
(When I was a-serving of their majesties Brown and Root)
Rows of racks under aquarium lights
And scattered paperbacks: Louis L’Amour
Bravo Company battlefield yarns, (love)-books
About blonde hot rod babes with really big (pretties)
The crew, all older than I, were better books:
Mechanics, enginemen, crane operators
Welders, riggers, radiomen, divers
Draftsmen for the “as built” modifications
The cook was a nervous man from New Jersey
He looked over his shoulder and dropped things
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
Inevitable, that the circle be completed,
celebrating our seasonal return to the
sheltering abode by river, bearing winded
surround sounds to our isle of near-perfection,
where slivered tongued foamy waves deposit
new & used poems on beach, emptied from
now repurposed sea shells and hardened
conchae's, evidence that the truest inhabitants
never leave, always return, with their markers
Inevitable, that I write this in premature
anticipation, amidst the towers of babble,
& honking taxis, imitating Canadian geese,
who await our presence to refute any paper,
that we fool human claimants, before Nature
pretense of ownership, are not mere renters, albeit
but for a few centuries, which by larger definition,
is an interim short term lease, writ in invisible ink, that tho it
yellowing disappears, the orange summer heat magic revives
Inevitable, that decades of worshiping this
place, now mindbound, as temple, shrine, to
a place extant in our minds, wherever we be,
as land that owns us; here, we have buried
super~hero figurines, sanded, polished memories
of loved ones, parents, friends, adventures, times,
confusing generations, for the children of earlier
children, whose children, now too scream with glee
& courageous abandon, familiar+identical to forbears
Inevitable, that we live here, though life demands
our presence elsewhere, in our minds,* for each
year burnishes our genes with sun rays, while sand
smoothes our roughened skin, and we are only refresher
modifications of our earlier selves, when we first were
lost, and stumbled upon this grail, with shovels and
red plastic pails, with which we commenced erecting
foundations, homes, gardens and vines, and images
that are always at home in our minds, living on,
in real time…
May 4, 2024
May 4, 2024 at 9:37 AM UTC
I know he is a good poem because
I want to read him over again
and analyze him
and take notes,
figure out each phrase
and memorize themes
about him
I want to learn about
every aspect
and
inspect every draft of former him
and learn why there
were
modifications and changes of him
but-
I also want to feel him,
without looking too closely
to just take a glance
and know
who he is
to connect
and love,
and preserve how he is read
because at first sight,
I knew I would memorize him
like that one truly good poem.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC