"morbidity" poems
struggle is the art form of the pitied, imagine
living lavishly, lightheartedly like a ladybug
in the spring just outside the city and
bliss: seldom seen in soldiers,
a privilege of the over privileged,
shining a bright, White light on each
and every one’s inner Judas, a way
to justify their means to demean
the conflict of the ages:
stay not in the sad, safe
confinements of that chrysalis or
smell not of that sweet, sweet,
chrysanthemum whose breath rocks of
morbidity.
breaking boundaries or snapping necks like
twigs on twigs on a White winter’s day, the summer:
long gone, and the fall: Black bruised knees and
scraped thighs, and a White world’s worth of words
left to say.
the New Year and the spring, alive and true,
are carried in by the southern wind and
trying times are all but through.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
In sable darkness and deafening sounds of her bedroom silence,
she found herself aching
in deep cogitation.
The full moons brightness had peered in
through her window pane,
but with its light
encompassed her with defeat
and decay.
Reality had settled in;
as she felt her body slowly submerge,
She knew
she was no longer her own saving grace.
She awoke in a place of death and morbidity,
But awoke in a state of contentment and comfortability.
Her agony remained; as the remembrance of today,
the ideas of what will come tomorrow,
and the hope of assurance to what she forebodes her future to be,
with the life she leads.
At last
the words had finally escaped.
“Bittersweet serenity.”
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
my polygamous relationship with you distances me from the monotony of monogamy and makes me feel lonelier than the loneliest mundane monogamist. my mere apologies for my misendeavors, the malnutritious morals of my miseducation propose metal mirrors and castaways controlled by cutting carvers, craving crazy letters and loyalty from lengthy lies and lonely lives. lethargy overtakes and vowels reign, raining drops like rainbows and rocks in rivers, rusting relationships, rusty railroads at intense intersections entwined in everything inside and nothing on the outside anymore except these
muscles. we are back at the beginning.
my mind marvels in the magic of the memories, the madness of the morbidity and the hesitations of your reaction. his, I take, is misunderstood as my misfortune, but it is not a miss, my fortune: it is a fox in feathers colorful like friendships 'fore their forfeited and feigned approval, forced for fear of polygamy tho' it promises the purest pleasure, the most personal independence and precious pearls of princes, princesses, powerful, plight-less
poetry. peace surrenders,
souls surprise themselves, surprise their cells, call for curious catastrophes to take place. colorful and calm they coincide with cooperation that can not contain the context of truth, of teases, of teasers and targets and tonal dualities and we endeavor, we endear you, we dare destroy the darkness of the devil in its disguised diamonds.
words lie at my feet like pebbles of poetry and I promise personal demise, deterioration and ridiculous obsessions- there's madness to be had and fragments to be written and I play with silly alliteration instead!
serious and serene you stare as if my sanity has slowly faded and I sternly helplessly smile shyly. I suppose you are sincerely offering me your blessing before parting, so stumbling slightly I surrender…
if this is the prevailing promise of mere mortality, I'm graciously aware I was worthy of words.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
A ******** enthusiast
Whose pessimism is intrinsic
And not fashioned
A frequenter the doldrums
With a penchant for exaggeration
A confused Scorpio
Plagued by ghosts of former selves
Meandering along a thorny path
Under darkened infinite skies
Waiting for the severed backbone
I Possess trailing behind
To latch on
And offer restoration and purpose
An eternal student
A slave to academia
With an insatiable hunger for knowledge
In the field of economics
Governed by perfectionism
That will be my demise
A feminist
A riot grrrl
With an acute fascination with morbidity
A worshipper of rock music
And Professional headbanger
An enlightened inner-directed soul
An awakened dreamer
Gouging out
The remaining fragments of delusion
From the eyes
Embracing realism
A sufferer
Aspiring to be human.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Betrayal of a nation
By its own generations
Pageantry that slackens
Sliding into morbidity
Obesity of the spirit
Swells of needless waste
In the name of wealth
Sacriledge
Oozing farce
Finger puppets
Only to be played
Imagined wars, sciences
A lavishness blithely unaware
Of its inner decay
Decadence
Sweet taste of poison
Thus falls Babylon
By her own hand
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 9:12 PM UTC
Some days, I wake up flighty and itchy.
Crawling out of my skin and jumping at every last inhale and exhale.
Crying at every last brush of my fingers on my scars.
Whimpering at having to be surrounded by a writhing mass of people.
These are the days when I’m most reminded of you.
Reminded of how you used to love me.
Reminded of how you used to hold me.
Reminded that you don’t care about me anymore.
These are the days when I wish I could still talk to you.
That you would still care about what I had to say.
I would probably ask you to hand me a scalpel and some scissors and the rubbing alcohol,
because I need to cut you and your scar tissue permanently away from my heart.
And even on these days I remember that you would have looked at me in anger and pity for saying such things (i.e. self-harm)
But these are also the days when I want to cut all of my emotions out.
Slice them away from my veins word by word.
Watch apathetically as I bleed the letters out.
All of these words and letters we have assigned to emotions, to try to describe the uncontrollable reactions we have in life.
Anger, Betrayal, Compassion, Exhaustion, Frustration, Guilt, Happiness, Indifference, Jealousy, Kindness, Love, Morbidity, Nervousness, Oppression, Peace, Remorse, Spite, Tranquility, Uncertainty, Vexation, and Yearning.
For, surely, it would be easier to be numb, than to go through all of these and many, many more?
To go through the long, unending cycles of good weeks, good months, and then bad days.
Sure, they’re less frequent than they used to be.
Sure, they’re few and far between.
Sure, it’s only 24 to 48 hours.
Sure, the medication quells the panic attacks and violent mood swings and poisonous thoughts.
But that just makes them worse when they surface.
Makes the paranoia worse.
Makes the anxiety worse.
Makes the self-abuse worse.
Makes me worse.
On these days I remember,
That you ran away from me because I’m broken
,
and you aren’t a handy man capable of fixing me.
I can spend all of my time loving you,
fixing you,
singing to you, worshiping you,
And in the end you cannot give these things back.
You aren’t perfect.
You aren’t chained to me.
You didn’t even want to claim me.
And after all, on these days,
Everything is my fault anyways.
Some days,
The days when I wake up,
Begging to be locked in a sanitarium,
Sobbing and biting and kicking and screaming,
I’m reminded that you,
And no one else,
Will ever love me.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
Tamed by an ordinary spirit,
So blissful and so charming,
Love, that is,
Or is it lust?
Either of the two end,
With lacerations that spell loss.
A mere flesh wound, mind you,
These temporary frowns,
Caused by passing past smiles,
Are only appetizers to the main course,
A bite of taste and a sip of tears.
Like 1-2-3,
The sensations come as fast as “they” go,
And to accept these customaries of life,
Is to accept that there is no permanence,
When it comes to stimulation.
Revive this lost soul,
As it relied on the scents of “them,”
To feel something deeper, more wholesome,
After years of self-isolation,
Caused by the last one that came and went.
Love this lustful sense of loss,
I sometimes crave the morbidity,
To remind me that I’m still breathing,
When I lost myself trying to preserve,
That feeling of lust masquerading as love.
Oct 27, 2023
Oct 27, 2023 at 11:54 PM UTC
The Mona Lisa assaults my brain,
Acrid perfume polluting my lungs.
Does the Mona Lisa not care if I die?
I see her chuckling,
Waggling her finger,
Saying with bitter ****
"You'll never be in the Metropolitan Museum of Art."
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
there must have been
a gas leak
or some drug in my drink
I think
but nothing comes to me
what shall I do all day?
gawky morbidity; decay
on this sticky hot sofa
an idiot sits like a rock
blocked and sterilized
I just can't seem to figure it
'move one leg,
at a time'
but it's like I'm laying on a big gob
of pink bubblegum
and I've nowhere to run
the cushions, the cushions
comfy & yet
closing in on me
what the hell,
am I crazy?
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
The morning brought the tremors of gray tumors in the sky
and it’s such a shame
that you had to hang yourself to dry your eyes
you broke the Sun
once you stared too long just to find
that you were blind
and what’s your name?
just an acronym of letters
without the words to tell them better
and It burned the colors in the rain
and made you bask in the pity of the sane
you were the working dead running from the living red
just finding sunshine in the telescope
a morbidity without the soap dangling on a rope
a sad addiction to fictional afflictions
as an urgency and Exit signs away your strife
with white gloves and an empty smile of love from above.
And how many gods does it take to change a light?
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 10:54 AM UTC
using the ink of experience means
leaning on what is known
building on what has been done before-
but what of those things
that move in the realms of the unknown?
The Inuit’s tongue speaks
A hundred words for snow
as in the midst of it
they live and grow
if that is true
for the words we speak
wouldn’t it also flow
that for the passions we most feel
our inner vocabulary is more?
for sure I’ve known
loss and pain
with morbidity had
a mild flirtation
sadness has been a bedfellow
I’ve played with jealousy
and envied greed
with vanity I often meet
I’ve been intimate with fear
fought with guilt
and broken up with anger
with love I’m best friends
happiness smiles at me
in solitude i am at my best
with mirth and joy
i search for peace
abundance and acceptance
are welcome guests
and enthusiasm brings me
the gift of zest
and so on and so forth
i’ve known them all
for better or for worse
but what of those
i know not yet
far away on some distant shore
i do not even know their names
so clueless as to their identity
can’t put a face to any of them
unaware of their personalities
strangers they are
and so will they be
until someday they find me
the only question that is left to be answered -
will I know them when we meet?
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
01.01.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
Imagine a world without terror outer
and inner, sans famine of food and water,
where every soul is well-sated; a world
sans sickness and disease, not by the cord
of morbidity and death held; a place
where huts are mansions, every shack is
a castle, and each flat a grand manor;
where the roads are built with pure gold
and the bridges with resplendent diamond;
where the day does not change in colour,
except when full moon in its full array
once in a month has its own display.
I mean a planet steeping in love
unfeigned, bristling with true hospitality
of the soul; a world bereft of danger,
and of every mind-and-heart breaker;
a world with the similitude of the garden of
Eden, hung on the shoulders of harmony--
where man at another cove's lovely dove
will not leer, where there are
no split and divorce. The genre, stuff
of life where one's pigmentation is
not the cardinal, but the inner essence.
A sort of society where ****** Hussein
and Laden-like fellows and all their
coterie of killers do not have a lair
of habitation, i refer; where besetting sin
has no confederacy with the rotary heart
and mind of man; where the leagues
of villians are non-existence. An earth
where conglomeration of wicked cliques
is non-operational: where everyone be
holy--no child soilder, nor forced labour;
where women are not ravaged in cruelty
of acts, and is void of conflict and war.
Such a place "the world" is not called
but "heaven: governed by the Almighty Lord.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
One push one step
All it takes till they're all weeping
Horrified by the morbidity of my depression
This is what you all did as you watched in amusement
As flesh turned to stitches
Stitches turned to masks worn daily
This is the consequences to what you think is funny
Laughing at the gay guy
Picking on the nerds
Wedgies and swirlys
After school beatings
Lame excuses for the reason their noses are bleeding
One bullet away
And it's your conscious getting locked up
Guilty...Guilty...Guilty
It's all your fault
Your to blame for the red walls
Once painted a baby blue like the sky
Where they all found comfort in the clouds
Now they're waiting patiently
To assist in dragging you to hell
My depression is that of everyone I've lost
To the unreasonable bullying
You pathetic ******* just don't see
The torment your behind the back laughter
In the face fists
Face to **** stained porcelain
Maybe you should taste what you prescribed
For every gay, **** ***** nerd, underling you so pleased
Priding yourself with their tears
Not realizing it wasn't the only thing you caused to cry
A wrist, a thigh, a chest
Now I'm filling graves you dug
With the bodies of my beloved misfits
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
what have i become. .
what have you made of me, mother?
what have you sculpted, brother?
carved to perfection,
into an ivory soulless wreck,
a hopeless mess, high off morbidity and agony,
carved to perfection,
to attend to your lavish needs,
of a stripped youth,
hidden under a blood stained carpet floor,
and you do it so lovingly,
as i reach for air,
when you've buried me
six feet under.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
The ethereal plane goes silent.
Pilot decides they are too tired to fly.
Decrease cabin pressure to decrease cabin fever.
The cousin of my cousin who is not my cousin cannot engineer a solution if not given proper tools.
Cavemen can use simple tools but are adept at clubs if you injure their hearts so let’s call a ***** a ***** we know diamonds are only rocks but forever is simply tomorrow repeating.
I can’t see what’s in the cards beyond that.
Even worse is to look at the present you gave worn each day.
Standing still a painful reminder.
Best to keep moving.
I'm in a precarious juxtaposition.
One move and the King is toppled but the Queen reigns in this game.
I shall grant our enemies no quarter, this game is free of charge.
The truth is the true blue you doesn't know what to do but the blue blood in you
requires more upkeep than that and you'll deny it until you're blue in the face.
That's enough blue clichés, especially when I'm seeing red.
Fell trees for the fires or gather the ones already fallen.
It doesn't matter, you'll still
wear multiple layers to get through the knight in shining arm morbidity.
I keep all your sugar coated spiders sealed in jars.
I'd rather they not bite me anymore either.
Outside appearances mean little when one wears so many faces.
See you on the flip side but remember on the inside I'm dying to meet you again.
I am jumbled.
I'm mixing my metaphors and metaphysics.
They promised adult supervision but I can't see clearly without glasses.
I'm like a deer caught in the dread lights.
I'm under cardiac arrest and I've been coaxed into signing a police state meant just for you.
How can I be held responsible for the consequences when everything is out of sequence, doesn't that leave me only a con?
Paradigm shift has occurred.
The door to my heart is closed.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
mediocrity runs
the nearest
subway station
morbidity owns
the city's favorite
salad restaurant
cowardice floods
the sink of
every public restroom
fear flows out
of the sewer
down the street
these factors consume
my daily routine
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
you’re not adams apple
the fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil
in the centre of the garden of eden
in genesis
yet at you
the round oranges of this afternoon-town
i stare
and my pate gradually
becomes pregnant
the wind that comes after
having a touch of your lips
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead
and my guava-leaf begins to melt
thus my hardware-business is going
into liquidation
the physician to the king is telling
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body
used… and used… and used…
your smile has not yet become
stupid
so from where the lamp-posts of the
town start
there are the cutlets
and the bolster
they are not the only ones
to utter the last words
about the pill
i’m too
in this summer
trying to decorate
the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony
if any silent dew-drop comes
to prepare and feed me
my birth-day frumenty
but i’ve no tongue
at all
all over the face there are only the eyes
and to the fate of my staring-at
has ever
so much blessings been available
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
I'm alive today, but not sure why
I've been thinking a lot about life and when I will die.
It's sad to say, but truth often is
I'm left here in this empty abyss of loneliness.
Sitting upon my pity-pot gains me nothing in the end
I wish I would've considered my actions, now without my friend.
Crushed and polluted within my mind
A crime scene inside my brain you will only find.
So, what is the solution to the problem at hand?
How can I correct what has already been done and still be able to stand?
Should I run away or stay to face the music and internally die?
I know that I'm sick and tired of always wanting to cry.
I know God exists and he has a purpose for my life.
I know that he loves me and will always make a way, leading me away from strife.
So, now that I remember that beautiful promise he made to me...
I'm asking the Lord to carry my burden and help me to be eternally free.
Do I still think about morbidity and the way it would look upon my death?
Am I so selfish to be concerned with how I will take my last breath?
No, I refuse to give up and let the evil one win.
I'm going to turn my life over to him again.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
Like a perfectly squared puzzle piece -
Life is the bane of my existence.
I don't know, diary,
I've been touched by morbidity.
I am not getting this 'life' thing right,
My grips are tight and things slip
Anger comes from places unheard of,
Slightest hells are the shells of explosions
Am I even a person?
When I don't own enough to feel my very presence
Am I even a person?
When whatever emerges from me is obsolete
I am the sole cashew hiding in a bar of chocolate;
The behavioural tick that picks on unsteady nerves
And so the question remains;
Slices my veins as it takes the reins of my sleep
Am I even:
A person?
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
is hidden in the lungs of a lover
who lost himself
in the war of keeping his love;
in his tears yet to stream his cheeks,
over the carcass of the only dead soldier
that is his own heart.
And the coldest, most macabre ******
lies between the partition of the lips
of the one who left-- willingly.
No good-byes.
No apologies.
Just plain frigid fingers
that smell like heartbreak.
This is the epic unwritten in history,
unseen in televised documentaries;
partly because of its gruesome morbidity,
and partly of its awful simplicity.
A traceless killing:
no blood,
no stains,
no weapons,
just lies.
Seamless all from the start--
just one mangled heart.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
laughing at myself
silencing my grief
as the ashes of my death filled childhood are dispersed into the breeze
so i can breathe a non-smoke filled sigh of relief
laughing at myself
as the morbidity slips away along with the anxiousness of a root chakra
disturbed in growth
whilst my worries of enough are quelled with enough on my plate
and beautiful places to sleep
laughing at myself
visions of my dreams cast far into the future are coming back at me thru
the freed up space that still smells a little of pain
but is dotted by ethereal rainbows like the room of a tibetan monk after the Rainbow Body 'phenonmanah' has taken place
and
i am laughing at myself
in no forced manner
as the lightness fills my being
a bountiful glow
slowly
i laugh at myself
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
The wind charm perched outside sitting still,
No breath to move it, stagnant
As if
Rigor mortis
Morbidity
Death
Had touched the air, inside he sat,
Tears streaming from his reddened eyes,
"Such beautiful music,
The log fire burned intensely , inside were his branding irons,
He had many in his holder, all sitting neatly,
Stifled noise whimpered near by.
"Time ages many things, many things,
"But bone is a music that sings beautifully,
The white metal was ripe for the flesh, as the
Duck tape peeled slowly, then ripped
As blood spots seeped from skin vandalised
And he recorded every tone that sang forth,
"You are A+ grade my, my, the music we will make,
"Plunged into the torso slowly,
Not wanting to not damage, that
Delicate,
Exquisite,
Fusion
Of bones that graced the air,
Screams echoing throughout the cabin,
Reverberating like a concerto on the senses.
He puts his headphones on, and with blade
Sharpened to its full potential,
As if a conductor waving it through the air.
With precision he cut, and recorded till silence fell.
Flesh was limp on the floor unwanted,
" Meat for the hounds I think,
As the heart still, faint essence of life's beat clinging,
Thrown to the awaiting dogs.
"Eat your heart out,
(He giggles smiling to himself)
The bone now cleansed of life,
Blood,
Muscle,
Marrow
Expunged from the host, till hollow then
Maliciously worn down to the tune of each, till
The silence breathed out. Each one was unique,
Having its own sound of death,
I heard the gesture of breath upon my master piece
Dangling,
Swaying,
Hanging
Life taken but the voices sing out,
I close my eyes and listen as wind kisses each hollow
And the music of death sings out, each made from
Only one never a mixture, as corrupted
Would the sound get two souls jousting
Over the voices expelled with winds gesturing them out.
I sell these pieces to those enticed by deaths voice
Hollowed out life, given purpose in silence
I sit in my chair the brands all in there place.
Tears form as the orchestra of screams scratch
Deep within his soul,
The wind speaks to those bones hanging outside.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Candle brims and faint light
Let it keep you alive
Fall in love with the passing night
It's acceptable to dream up your deaths
These potential slumbers won't bring rest
I wish I slept
and dreamt of lanterns in grass
Everything in my view is on fire
Full of abiding, dangerous desire
It's not my pulse that's pounding
My passion is what's thriving
I hammer the beauty so forcefully
I should recognize this morbidity
To my being it's life,
not the finale
It's the soft breaths you take involuntarily
Peaceful.
I hope death holds this illumination.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 7:30 AM UTC