"muddled" poems
I am BPD.
I am the demon that possesses your mind,
I am the ghost of all you want to leave behind.
I am the monster that will make you unstable,
The voice in your head making you suicidal.
I am your heart making your emotions intense,
I am your mind, muddled and making no sense.
I am your brain making you neurotic,
With the perfect balance of a handful of psychotic.
I am your self-esteem making you feel worthless,
I will make sure you feel that you have no purpose.
I am your impulsiveness making you act reckless;
Your need to harm yourself is becoming endless.
I am your soul feeling neglected,
You feel it very deeply because you need to be protected.
I am your extreme paranoia,
Making you live in a shell, I’m a merciless destroyer.
I am your fear of rejection, you will outburst at the slightest disaffection.
So, I am BPD and I will ruin your life,
I will cover you in scars made by the blade of a knife.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 4:03 PM UTC
*Minds infested with lies
There is no reason to start a conversation
Every word a figment of sinister plan
Heady cocktail inebriating the sane mind
Muddled heart and mind in a state of stupor
Reasons not enough to not believe the unreasonable*
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
No matter how many times he hurts you
No matter how many times he wrongs you
No matter how many times someone tells you how dangerous he is
You crawl back
You crawl back with a head full of muddled thoughts
Searching for satisfaction
Convinced that he’s your salvation
Each time you lie next to him
In a fitful sleep
Bearing your guilt as he sleeps smugly and soundlessly beside you
Because he knows that no matter how much you fight
You’ll be back
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
you told me
to write down my feelings
and share them with you
when you wake up,
but drawing out these emotions
isn’t easy because
they’re pale and indefinite
i cannot distinguish
a path to take,
whether it’s winding
or cobblestoned,
or so overgrown with trees
that i cannot see the sky
so maybe in the meantime
i’ll sit in my room
and fold paper cranes
on rainy days
till a map that illustrates
how to carry on
makes its way
into my muddled hands
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
Dimension beginning of vile ****** exposed,
And the Emperor has no clothes,
While helplessly strut a mighty walk without a shame.
Course of history repeating itself,
Like the flow of water meeting in the river of streams,
But recycle through the clouds and back to the ground it flows.
Are we so blinded by the glimmer of the mirage of oasis in the desert,
We toast with sands of dune to quench our thirst of our plight,
And all is but a fickling light ducktaped by words of unintelligible muddled murmur?
This is truly the flawed design of our time,
When we no longer promote arts and crafts of philosophies,
And religious cults of zealots condemned the science and Academia by berating it's achievement.
Likes of ancient times of Agora and the height of it's human enlightenment,
There are forces of deconstruction of society of choas ensued by hateful fear mongers,
And systematic inward of national fevor of berserkers leveling progress.
Maybe another dark age is inevitable,
But little seed of hope I feel tangible,
And sometimes event maybe a phoenix.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
when the urge is too strong
and my head is muddled with thoughts and crazieness
I dive into the toilet
the eye of the storm, the only calm
And after, sing myself to bed
with my raw throat and ****** teeth
and lie in a fitful sleep
choking on waves of guilt and *****
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Oh my Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
Where were you, when the woe was tossed, and I had to cry?
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Oh my Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
Muddled in the crowds, and I was lost, wan-ting to die.
My head wasn’t clear but I saw you there; apple of my eye-I!
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Oh my Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
We twin snakes, on a path above, and we circled ‘round,
Three nights and a day, and we fell in love, tearing up the town,
…but nothing can compare to the time we shared, and the fires-flare in our hearts -ensnared,
For your love I long, but you are dead and gone; My Butterfly!
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Oh my Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
And that will never change, tears of my heart in chains,
No love will be the same, I hang my head in shame, hiding all the pain;
My Butterfly!
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Oh my Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Oh my Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”
“Butterfly-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-eye!”*
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
I am Bear Lady
and you are Toucan Man —
Fur and feathered backs
against a striped tent.
Cut-off like tickets,
crowds melting Dali-like
in the distance
from crystalline eyes,
frozen in time…
Wings graze skin and
fur can’t compete.
The electricity of
our eccentricity
is freakish,
yet with every touch,
I feel less like a freak.
My history
of hoop jumping
tightrope walking,
and captivity
dissolve transparently
as I search deep,
deep,
deep,
into supernova eyes —
they outshine
this circus life,
this love for applause,
the performance inside.
As I gaze into
frozen pools,
the broken chords
of carny music
da da da-da-da-da drown.
The morning quiet,
muddled coffee grinds
are sensitive and silent,
chilling me to the soul.
Earth, a peripheral,
to pupils that absorb
mine full-force,
until I can’t see
this galaxy anymore,
save green starbursts,
my light source.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
I ***** stanzas -
I spew literary clutter
My poetry is aimless
The words all muddled
I write unsharpened
The point pressed pointless
A fire smoldering with no tinder
The universe questions its existence
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)
Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.
Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
~for the one who will know it was written for her~
muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled
have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?
the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear
this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature
I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif
muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess
even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman
*I am here, waiting patiently, though long time
no see
like ever,
absentia, dementia,
both self-censure:
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her,
my sun, my sun, my son,
yet she, as well,
is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating
my muddled mind*
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
The American said: let's drink the words.
She was so right.
A loquacious gin & tonic
An acerbic Darwinian daiquiri on ice
A French martini disrupted not stirred
A mojito muddled in abstinence
A Belfast bomber & brimstone
Love on the Rocks with perpetual dissent
*** on the Beach with a dash of chilli & lime
***** scorpion splashed in ironic ascension
Dark *** stifled by the sting of a disturbance
Love scented petals infused with tequila worms
Salubrious shots of Sambuca
Absinthe toasted in lunacy flakes
This is my bar.
Choose your poison wisely
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote
My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don Quixote....you will find
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don Quixote...my minds strength
Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
A hail storm of tears roll down your chest
I feel you are near
Your warmness wasn't sincere
Harness your empathy and color clear
Pierce the molded statue held together by strong glue and fear
You seem to be ignoring the address
Instead you only here muddled up curses of vulnerability
Hurt feelings you developed as a system to keep you safe
Creating a type of gunk around your face
It's thick film is nothing but a temper angry
I am sorry no one assisted you in modifing your animosity
You will forever be stuck immature and hating
You could always let go of resentment and regret
but then
You would have to forgive
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
Looking out at all the choices that lay before me
Watching me with quiet eyes, they appear so peaceful
Knowing the moment I step forward that will all change
What once was picture perfect, now a mess of infinite crossroads
Difficulty lies in getting past my muddled thoughts, everything they are I can truly see
If I make the wrong choice it would be so easy to implode.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
Your words claw out of my eyes,
And fall translucent into the clasped palms
Of my hands.
Listen, listen carefully to the muddled sounds.
Hear the tiger's paws trample the dusted paths of
The vacant streets;
The arcane acres of blotted ink
Sitting beside the ruminant hordes,
Choking on a drawer of silver spoons.
We see through the wall's hole;
A soothing fire raging, yet we cannot touch
It's flame.
STAND IN LINE, take a number
Our turn will be coming soon.
Be the street lamps beneath the redwood's shade
Be the porch swing on the moon's surface.
Be Atlantis, lost and found.
Listen,
listen
carefully...
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Gray
Black
Depression strikes
Black
Blue
Nursing my wounds
Blue
Yellow
Pink
A flag of support
Pink
Purple
Colors of my past
Purple
Blue
A transition in progress
Blue
Black
The pain won't leave
Black
Gray
A blanket of sadness
Gray
A muddled state of being
Everything swirled together
Everything separate
Everything me
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
3.6k
Throwing themselves beneath the mechanized yard-work goliath,
Salvia flowers bow their heads, heralding my passing
Stooping to remove their violet hats,
Thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot by passing metal,
A muddled **** of
half-death, half-birth
Floral genitalia broken into fragments, shards of color
Yet always they bow
Stooping, self-subjugating, submissive, servile, stretched
to their absolute maximum, fibrous tendrils ripping from the bed of grass
Until they flutter gently
Half-mocking their half-living counterparts
Still rooted firmly in the mulchy beds.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
Muelle de Binondo Street,
Barangay San Nicolas,
Old Manila.
My dad's fate
Will always be muddled
With nostalgia:
The mid-afternoon
Traffic of fruit vendors,
The toothless strains
Of my grandfather's voice,
Bouncing off
The warehouse walls
Like folding cardboard,
The ceramic gallops of horse-
Drawn kalesas taking him
From school to
My grandfather's offices,
Every day and back,
Up and down
The cardboard box river
To Tondo. There, he hurriedly
Buys ten
Asado buns
From a stall across the
Street from their
School - a voracious
Schoolboy
Forever late for class, forever
Putting on basketball jerseys
Too wide for him,
Basketball shorts too
Short; body
Always too gangly,
Too long-limbed, wide eyed
And fleet footed
For his dreams to catch.
He once could dunk.
He is still a baby boomer -
Scared of firecrackers,
Weird penchant
For popped collar shirts,
Pointed shoes, and
Sequins - he, was an avid
Lover of stars - his old
Dust-strewn bed posts
Giving way, I imagine,
To iron bars caging
The luminous starry night,
Floating high above
The sewage
And the freight trucks
That weigh him so.
They sang to him.
In the tune of
My mother's voice -
The only album
He ever possessed.
Song set from
His favorite band.
"Apo Hiking Society."
His favorite word,
Was "leap."
A disciple
Of MJ, Dr. J,
And Magic,
Samboy, and Jawo,
Icarus on hardwood
And leaping
From the free throw line.
"Son," he once told me,
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
He was always afraid of heights.
It wasn't until 41 that
We made him ride a roller-coaster,
That he had even seen a roller-coaster.
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
I think my favorite
Memory of my dad
Is still him wringing my fingers
At Space Mountain with
Eyes so tightly shut
That we forgot
Our fears,
And screamed instead:
So.
This,
Is how the stars look like
When unbolted
By folding cardboard,
And iron bars.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
Last class:
Muddled mind and bleary eyed
Concentration took a fall
Find a hollow - crawl inside
Lost the pills to Now-Tow Hall
Benzos - always second choice
Wear my Kpen like a shawl
Want to whine with all my voice
GIVE ME BACK MY ADDERALL
This class:
**Iris in on what's inside
Orange bottle of enthrall
Guidance, I will not abide
my true love - oh adderall
Tweaking out with pupils wide
Shrink my presence, oh so small,
Temptations I will all abide
Personified a mere rag doll.**
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
Veasna Ta Kvak recording
playback
over Chinatown cafe again
while recounting recent events
to journal pages
muddled from frequent
exchanges bag to bag
(Been to Taipei airport, Bali, Vancouver, most
recently)
blind fate
blind fate
shower me with Indian daisies
and photographs of Railway
New Delhi!
Hanoi Old Quarter/
Vietnam monsoon/
evening on balcony/
Darjeeling water boiled
and filtered anti-malaria
golden drink for honeylungs and
spring-soul morningtide
under moonlight canopy
of Avalokiteśvara
the fruitful
Bodhisattva!
English lessons
and future
hourless
comely chimera
in sleep phenomenon
Benares phantasmagoria YELLOW
(near Mata Anandamai Ghat)
speaking to Aghori
prophecy
Kala Bhairava
FIERCE ILLUSORY APOCALYPSE FAMILIAR
WHERE IS YOUR NOOSE?
the Ganges is full of lice and flowers
candlewax melted into holy water
sickness
equal to
harmony & jubilant
eyeclose and mouthcurl.
The future mysteries in
Mexico City poorboy
$2 mystic orb jade green
reflective underneath
dirt now in North American
bottom white four floor house
basement suite coffee table.
Visions indivisible
from the Viridian roundly haze
but surefire in their accuracy
I'm absolute
and universally formed
for the next few cacophonous
decades!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC