"mumblings" poems
Lying here reminiscing about the time we had,
you made me smile and my heart fluttered in my chest.
I think how nobody can make me laugh anymore,
but imagining about the past never helps
or the constant daydreams of death, I keep to myself.
I’m so restless from wrestling with these thoughts in my head,
they're too loud and piercing, paralyzing me to my bed.
I’m busy listening to the soothing whispers, that all want me dead.
Looking for the coast to be clear, so I don't have to be fake again.
Since the mumblings remain, to sting and heighten all the pain.
I try and write out the disturbing sounds to keep them at bay,
waiting for the right moment to come when I can drain my brain.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 8:08 PM UTC
I shaved away the edges until there was nothing left, but a dream of what could have been, and so with frustration i accepted the jagged.
A common law of common flaws, as my face morphs into mask.
I still wonder, when it all will collide, building up inside ...
So much.
Too much.
Electrified in the the allure of my ruthless retorts, as i struggle in futile resistance to the inevitable.
The feeling is incredible, when you let all just go.
As it gently flows from the empathy into ecstasy, learning to love thy enemy, even as they are metaphorically stabbing me in the back.
Euphorically to react to the sensations in my lap when shes next to me.
Hexing me in a shellacking smack to my mannerisms
Her summer dress to address my cynicism, as it flows back from whence it came.
Detained in her image.
Restrained, in questioned worth.
Worth a thousand words.
Words never heard but seen in synesthesia.
Synesthesia saving my amnesia from forgotten verbs that be-heave us, in forgetful stumbling of the loving mumblings before the kiss.
The kiss dismissing the winded blue lips from the fumbled wits of love.
Love drown the fires ablaze as it spirals away.
Away from the journey.
Journey of the uninterrupted.
Uninterrupted in the hunting of my comforts.
Comfort in the squiggled lines.
Lines that pack a little comfort.
Comfort in the blinds, as i sacrifice my obedience for a little bit of expedience on the smile that awaits, this toothless face.
Bludgeoned stupid, as i pace at half mass, blinded in the tall grass of empty lands amassed in colors unseen with tunneled eyes that refuse to defy gravity.
Gravity in your roads chosen.
Chosen in the glow of abodes ablaze.
Amazed in starlit eyes.
Eyes to dream.
Dream of better ways.
Ways to clean the bad away.
Away with my wayward words.
Words observed in zero.
Zeros the point in which i met her, blinded in the blur, as im pulled to her.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
I met my neighbor today.
Well, he's not my neighbor yet,
but he will be when I'm forty-two
and have that burgundy four-door.
He'll have two kids by then,
one from a previous marriage;
loud mouth little *****
always reminding his step-mother
that his real mom wouldn't stand for
what she wants to call discipline.
I should really remind his dad to return
my rototiller when I see him next.
-
The meteorologist called for sleet
and I still don't see any ****** sleet.
I walked to the fuel station and got a fountain soda;
I counted six stray cats on the way back.
One of them used to belong to a woman
by the name of Jamila who moved back to Atlanta
in July of last summer.
The cat never liked to come to her,
so it stayed behind to chart star patterns.
Sometimes, when no one is out on the street,
the cats meet in alleyways to gossip
about the state of affairs in the soy city.
-
I buried seven heads-up pennies
underneath the yield sign on Union street
last Wednesday, I believe it was.
I'm still waiting on a reply,
but Mr. Cuttlefish isn't known for his punctuality.
No one is around here;
it's bad for your health if everyone knows where
and when you'll be.
They say one of the neighbor kids
found a piece of amber the size of a plum
in a box of Rice Chex from the corner market.
I knew someone would find it eventually.
-
Every umpteenth sidewalk slab has an "X" engraved
in the top, right-hand corner.
It signifies a meeting zone, and if you wait their long enough
I can probably convince one of the
silver men from the condemned apartment building
to let me borrow their aural symphonizer
so I can finally see what it's like
to extract one while it is still alive and roily.
It wont be too long of a wait,
as the men are always brief with conversation
and always seem to blink and breathe
at the exact same time I do.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
Here.
Here is where the mumblings stop and the singing begins, even if its off-pitch and bad toned, its beautiful and real and home. I can feel it in my bones, the resounding yes that this is where I belong. These people may not hold my soul, they may not be the closest to me, and I may not fall in love with them. But I love them still, and they are my family without blood, they are my green family, smiling beside me, trying to make a difference.
We all believe that the world could be a better place, and we all dare to dream that maybe, just maybe, we could make that difference. Its a magic I've never felt before, being silent in a room and just feeling intoxicated with comfort, like no eyes are watching and no words must fill the silence and no monsters are peeking over my shoulders.
The weight of the world is gone and I feel at peace, dipping my fingers in applesauce, being as me as humanly possible and for once not being judged and not having to explain and simply living.
Belonging in a silent room. I never knew it would come to this day, but it has. Its a day I've dreamed of, a day that has always touched the tip of my tongue but never quite been tasted, at least until now. And now it is here, bare before me, and I am reveling in its beauty. If I could draw, I would paint you a picture, if I could compose, I would write an Aria, but alas all I have is these silly little words to caress the eyes and sooth the soul and hopefully make a little difference someday.
Because that's all anyone really wants, right? To matter. To have it all matter, life, happiness, career, future, past, present, death. No one wants to go out like a light and have no one miss their warmth, everyone wants at least a shiver of something once they are gone, and to have everyone know they made something or someone better.
We're dreamers, my people and I, and I think that's what binds us; our endless capacity for hopes and dreams and combining the two to pray for a place better than the one we have today, not one worse tomorrow.
Tomorrow things may change, tomorrow I may not feel the same way as I do today, but today?
I belong is a silent room, and it is glorious.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
m
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disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and **** painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.
almost too much of not enough.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
EMILY DICKINSON:
You gave us the bumble bee who has a soul,
The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks,
And how God plays around a back yard garden.
STEVIE CRANE:
War is kind and we never knew the kindness of war till
you came;
Nor the black riders and clashes of spear and shield out
of the sea,
Nor the mumblings and shots that rise from dreams on
call.
1.5k
I try to explain the world--
the deeper meanings to my mumblings
all of it a frustrating mess,
an artist canvas splashed with too many colors--
that it becomes impossible to depict which is what.
Is that blue or is that aqua, I don't even know anymore.
When it comes to understanding my thoughts,
it becomes a psychotic break from reality--
where I imagine my fingernails scraping
chunks of flesh from my neck.
I plead for my hands to place themselves around my throat,
"Please suffocate yourself please just let me out"
Begging for someone to understand the mess,
that the khaki colored object actually means something.
Each splotch a representation of myself
every detail aligned to explain a greater idea.
As arguments end, they scribble deep within
a sketch book of sickening black ink;
Marks its place in the drippings of my thoughts,
making those colors lost in translation
so not even the painter knows how they feel.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
as i drowned myself
in the depth of my tears
flooding the land of my thoughts
i have lost everything i ever owned
i could almost say
that death
was my middle name
and as i walked
between faces
i would hear mumblings
and it sounded like screaming to me
i was going insane
i did not see the sunshine
i couldn't bear the thoughts
of never being good enough
my hopes were limited
and my dreams were slowly fading
and i was
lost
within the sounds
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Can you hear them voices?
That only i can hear?
Whispering Warnings,
Feeling My soul up with fear.
It's hard to be lonely,
When you can hear,
Its like they are roaring,
In my ears.
I'm tired of them coming,
Oh how they just appear,
Mumblings emerging,
They will never disappear.
They act like they know me,
I try to flee,
Wanting to destroy me,
Their all i see..
Wouldn't wish this on Nobody,
Them spying on me.
My brain is lying,
Is this real or a dream?
Jun 9, 2024
Jun 9, 2024 at 12:13 PM UTC
We are all part of the Dead Poets Society,
in that we are all adeptly capable
of free thought and expression.
The difference, between
true romantics and the (in)expressive realists,
lies in the passionate mumblings which echo across prairies.
The difference is simply that we
cling to life, to dreams, to desperation and to death
as though they are the buoys of a great journey - invincible.
While the realists puncture holes
in dreams and death alike,
sinking with abstract thoughts like great boulders - motionless.
The difference between two polar opposites
is the brazen stroke of being
and the frenzied, wild dash of living.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
To be still in one moment
Where two hearts, together make one whole..
Where I bless his eyes
As the dawn caresses the sky, and
Whisper sweet my name against his lips, breathless
Lays my heart-skin, awaiting the drink of his tenderness,
Echoes in the quiet...
Skin sensations pressed soft against
A soft hypnotic night's breath... I hear it carried by the winds...
and I am swept downriver in a maelstrom of memory and ache...
Warm scents musk a timeless aphrodisiac, as
I dream in bare skin, my urgent pulse beating,
Fluttering endlessly...
To the place where he seeks me,
Touching my breath,
Reaching inside my heart to the corners where I breathe,
Pinning me beneath his pleasure
Senseless and nirvanic...
Strummed in the rhythm...
Of slow hands...
Hands warm and seeking, unfolding
Within urgent whispers;
Sacred moments slip into timeless joy;
Where midnight hides behind moon-shadows
Cradling the syllables of our deepest ache,
In the fire that whispers through us...
Breath,
Tangible as a caress...
Tangles in the flow,
Swaying beneath shadows...his smile, the only temptation
I ever needed, wraps tightly around
My nakedness;
There is passion in the way he smiles,
The heavy lids of his yearning eyes gather me into the heart of him,
An endless spiral...piercing my heart...burning my soul...
While whispers tumble
Surrounding me within the sanctity of his emotions
Awaiting the feed of my lips....
Lips swollen and bruised; awaiting
Amatorial sin, pounding aloud,
Warmth spreads, lusting for love, while
Kisses nibble the desires of tomorrow;
Freeing me hot and dewy
Beneath the circles of his tongue,
******* pierced with the ripening ache of warm breath,
A graze of teeth, absorbing the sensation of
A lava heat flow, molten moisture
Upon sinned skin....
The arch of my back
The touch of his fingers...........breathtakingly slow
Pulsing desire through me;
I Lay my mouth down
And prepare a slow dance to traipse hot along cooled
flesh;
Oh how he quiver-throbs!
Moaning my name as his fingers press me firm against him,
Pounding rhythms that mock my heartbeat,
Where the moon finds me arching in the moan of my sighs....
Delicately fierce, his
Fire rages through me,
As whispers plead upon the long, slow,
Wet lick, relentless under
The silent cry of surging tides
And I moan within the scorching growls of his flesh
Whispering incoherent mumblings
Falling against me, to tremble flesh to flesh,
To satiate not the momentary quivering flames,
But all the self and soul of love;
To be still in one moment,
Where two hearts, together make one whole............
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 7:44 PM UTC
I have taken shots of sorrow
til it became bottle after bottle
of warm liquid that ever warms my veins
leaves me wobbly and in a daze
the bartender says my limit is reached
but i tell him to keep pouring
keep pouring ,keep pouring, til I lie down snoring
However, like a wounded beast i refuse to lie down
So,I'm sitting at the bar and feeling weak
ditzy and cant speak
the woman next to me is saying something
about her problems and things
but my only replies formed are mumblings
the shot glass is sitting on the bar empty in front of me
painted with the cherry red of my lipstick
that once made me pretty
it tempts me for another round
it's evil stares haunts me and so I befriend its gaze
by looking at the glass lovingly
I ask the bartend for more
but he tells security to usher me to the door
upset, i saunder out,
broke my left heel and scream curses as if im opening hell's mouth
Limping around,I somehow found my car and sat in it
took out depression ,rolled it up and lit it
kept taking hits
hit after blazing hit
til my car was so smoky,it leaked out the window
dancing into the air and vanishing--
leaving me as a widow
it was then i decided to grow
tracing the smoke as it dwindled
looked under my seat and found a half empty bottle pain
and kept sipping on it
with nothing to gain
the mirror showed my patheticacy
faded cherry red
runny eyeliner
and smudged blush
painted a wasted mural of me
numb from anything once felt or thought
i threw it into gear and attempted the wasted ****** of me
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Each thoughtful pondering
Sliver like descends in inked threads
Removed from within the whirlpool of my mind
To become a living, breathing substance.
Many just cluttered mumblings
Extracted to clear the thoughts and reasoning’s
Of the eccentric soul
Pencieve, I pity you
For now you bear the clutter
That enables poetic inspiration
To bring forth its fruits
Penceive I thank you
For without such as you
True confusion reigns
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 12:53 AM UTC
Have you ever heard the ramblings of a crazy man? They're often like the mumblings of a sleep-talker. Unfiltered, unearthed from the blackened crevices of the burned truth.
They're rooted in the torn up letters that you thought you threw out. In the prison of socially acceptable things to think
That send you into a whirlwind of what ifs.
They're in the things everyone knows are true but are too paralyzed by fear to admit.
In the vapid humor that covers up the paranoia. In the fear still lingering after the emergence of the Monster Town under your bed.
But what does one do with these ungodly demons?
Perhaps the answer lies in the disregarded chemically corrected ramblings of a "crazy" man.
But who will be the one to open their ears
and tape up their letters
and open their cells
and embrace their fear for the greater good of the fading humanity?
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
for the false, convict, predilection for insane mumblings to cease into a void of hell, Nero indulges in the waters of the lethe, to forget life, the void, god.
to burn our cities, temples, is to drink, but to eat.
eat, mind you, the key to our temples, and dare not drink, least burn thy gods before unlocking their secrets, delectable enlightenment.
eat, and let the void's blackness of death be lit with the magnificent magentas, mauves, and cyans,
hue of inconceivable reaches of the potential of empty.
the psychedelic ****** frolic and feel,
pain sensual and dominating.
to the banks with Nero and his abyss of black,
let the cruel absence be filled with the blood of Nero, and the spectrum of our minds.
eject that horrid emperor for your self and your self's liberation from yourself. the ego, burns with Nero, in the fiery waters of the lethe.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
let me into the stream of humanity's mumblings
this emotion thick on my face
my words live
fill the pages
yet i remain an empty vessel
a winterbound torn down dark amusents
of self sabotage
strife and the wonderful treasures
the sweat pours
like an announcement of desperation
breathing in gasps
it would ease my sorrows
it would ease my soul
weary of the day
lets gather our wits about us
to make safe passage thru the
oncoming silence of darkness
your odd socks gather in the corner
along with half a dress
and a broken stroller
the child sleeps silently
headphones clears
battered noise
fire ignights
the long years unwind before me like a grand sketch
subtle and deep with mystery
unfinished portraits of long forgotten friends
surge forth like a strong breeze
and catch my sails
carry me forth into distant times
where something was shared
and a face comes clear...a place
lenny...the yard..
September nineteen seventy six...
a young striving for mastery...but it was because of....
but the sea is an unforgiving lady
and before i can see
what lay there
the memory fades
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
In this place
In this time
It is a story time
Around my territory
Some ears are corked
Enjoying my honey
Flowing into them
Wanting the thickest to feel the surge
And it shows
The hush hushes
The eye eyers
The unhearable mumblings are its evidence
It is a past
Made into a good story
I care not what it entails
And will certainly not let it define me now
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
As a rubber ball
the child’s heart is bounced
from concrete walls
while courtroom antics
are played out for spite by all.
Finger pointing, lying, loud voices
and between times an ice cream cone for a boy.
A boy or perhaps a toy
waits with this one or another, while robes and
books decide on a father or a mother.
Perhaps a Saturday father will be born, for rules
are rules and stated clear, they read that a mother’s
love is best.
Pay no mind to children’s love or reality.
Pacing floors and clouded eyes, stare at yellowed prints
adorning walls of aged wood and words.
Father speaks in turn of days gone by, promises love and speaks
of a son not a boy.
“Times may change” a voice whispers to the trembling man,
“the past may not endure”.
A miracle today they all say, as the majestic rooms hold
mumblings by the score.
Hand in tiny hand they move on out, to streets of hard cement,
where dreams are waiting to be built.
No Saturday father today, perhaps another time.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
In the old back woods
we watched him lay to see
his soul before the world
in this captivity.
In the old back woods
he spoke a language be
in mumblings incoherent
to be as he should be.
A rag, a bone and hair
he shrank two sizes, three
and scampered underneath
the leaves among the tree.
His eyes so beady blackened
he still could stare at me
and he led his army onward
to make the putrid flee.
A tail so long and mangy
flipped two and fro in glee as
he motioned for his cousins
to chant the words of we…
in order to be free.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
Dream Talker, wordless in sunlight;
timeless truths in unconscious hours:
Where are you?
Where is your heart?
Are your mumblings of affection benign?
Or is your soul fighting-
fighting to be released from your mind.
You are the flame ignited by the sun,
before Dawns' scent merges with the horizon.
You are the darkness which numbs,
and the silence that deafens.
As you slumber beside me,
you stir a well of words through your breath:
A speech for no one but for Love.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC
Do you
see
me?
Sitting alone
in
the
dark.
My breath
hitched
and
frozen.
Throat closed
unable
to
breathe.
Eyes quivering
against
rabid
thoughts.
Hands shaking
from
irrational
beliefs.
Muscles tight
fearful
of
death.
Eyebrows furrowed
from
incomprehensible
mumblings.
Nightmares exposed.
Do you
see
me?
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
Rumblings and mumblings
That’s all my lips can form.
Murmurs and whispers
That’s the loudest of my sounds.
A twisted body so
Disheveled and small.
Yes, I am
Special.
Stares and glares.
Mockery and discrimination.
Everyday gifts from people
Oh-so-kind.
“Stupid,” my teacher
Whispers to another.
“Into the last class she goes.”
A stinging heart and
Angry tears flood.
I want to shout, “No!’
But out comes a deafening nothing.
You call me Special?
I am not blind.
Or stupid.
Or thick.
I know that by Special, you mean
Idiot.
Why do you look at my
Tiny frame and
Think that since my body
Cannot function like yours,
My brain must be the same?
I can do
Anything I put my mind to.
I can learn.
I can live.
I can love.
I have so much.
So much to give.
But why won’t you let me?
I think
It is you who is disabled.
You are not able to see
Everything I can become.
Who I’m meant to be.
What I can and will do.
Yes, I am Special.
Yes.
But not the Idiot ‘Special’ you think.
I am me.
I
Am
Jane.
Remember that name.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
My brain is a wheelchair
And people think I am flying
Over cities and wastelands
Jungle gyms and green public pools
I assume the role of deformity
I am my very best Judas
Because I am lazy and can walk with the rest of them
My heart is deformed and dumb
And perfect people pity it
They hold it tight and translate
Its mumblings and tantrums
Into innocent sermons
I feel bad for my heart too
It should have been thrown off a cliff
Like the ancients used to do
My hands are plastic machines
And I fear them more than God
They scratch me in my sleep
They poke holes in my stomach and my faces
But worst of all
They write letters that show people
places I’ve never dared to be.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 1:13 PM UTC
Maybe that was
why I was
so afraid
to lose you.
You were
the only calm in
the chaotic
rumblings and mumblings
in my head.
You offered
warmth in the middle of
a torrential downpour.
In my life filled of
confusion and indecision,
things made sense.
You made sense.
We made sense.
Until we didn't.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 9:57 AM UTC