"numeral" poems
1116
There is another Loneliness
That many die without—
Not want of friend occasions it
Or circumstances of Lot
But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought
And whoso it befall
Is richer than could be revealed
By mortal numeral—
8.4k
You no longer cross my mind
I burned that bridge.
You took the wrong hand
and left.
This time my tears became mathematical, as I watched you walk away they drew 11 on my cheeks.
I knew this time you weren't coming back so like dividing a 7 with 3, I remained here.
Thinking about you, thinking about us
Thinking about that last day you came into my room and we ****** i mean it felt so real
I miss U
like I am reciting alphabets and skipped the 21th letter.
I miss you
What 4?
Like I was counting 1 2 3 5 and forgot a numeral.
May my feelings for you Rest In Peace, like our relationship was a funeral.
You were my Hat I couldn't get you off my head,
but now the sun is set, I don't need sun rays protection.
Like a lawyer can I make an objection,
You used to be my babe
now you're my 24th alphabet
X.
Like excuse me, did I date you? What was I thinking
Like Ex Curse you, I Hat you now get off my head.
I gave you my heart but you took my soul too,
Satan.
I gave you my Hut but you thought you were so High Class so You couldn't Stay.
I called you Rihanna, but you didn't Stay.
Just because I begged you not to leave, you thought I was a street kid
so like choosing not to go to the right direction you left me Standing there on the streets.
Now like a comrade who went exile can you please comeback and UNSAY you love
Comeback and UNHUG me
Comeback and UNKISS me
Comeback and UNLAY next to me on this bed
UNLAUGH at my jokes.
UNSMILE at me.
I want you to UNREAD that letter I wrote you
Comeback I want to UNTOUCH you
and UNMAKE love to you.
Unlove Me.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
I
When I look for inspiration
I dig through bedrock of heartbreak poems
So you but so not us
II
You are my inspiration
Not enough to put in words but too much to say
I fall asleep with poem scraps floating in my empty skull
As if all I could ever know was words for you
III
Sometimes my mouth gets tired of smiling
The things I don't tell you hang as deadweight on each of my ribs
Even your dove-wing voice can't pull me
From the black sea I lurk in
But you smile for me anyway
IV
Mid afternoon and I'm sleeping with the light on
You're a brewing thunderstorm that promises
Never to drought my dusty ribs
V
Late night and I'm not a poet
But you're the shallow river
Where I can sit naked and you won't hurt me
Your waters are warm and make me want to write
I'm not a poet but you're poetry
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, for the first time in forever I speak directly for no reason:)
happy
guess what sad
literally don't know who I am
somebody is always touching you even the air
guess how many lives you touched not me
and you'll reach the middle of nowhere
want my body buried dug in the ocean deep a marine funeral
guess why the death is thinking about me
corpses floating around some fish some greens too numeral
maybe the sun today the last time sets flush
guess where I'm headed would be the end of me
make the best out of it is a matter that won't make me blush
-------ravenfeels
Jun 15, 2021
Jun 15, 2021 at 11:58 AM UTC
explain to me why destruction is considered an art?
if i were you, i’d find a way to fight it.
as if destruction was an abstraction to describe to one’s self in a physical installation for all to see in a rarely visited gallery
we lock the doors because we are ashamed of the critics marking and making spiteful points as they leave red marks all over the walls
almost as if the surfaces were like a test paper without any attempt of answering or the tear and wear of the skin you bare
it was always war that we wouldn't label with a numeral to go down in the big books. instead, we whispered it under the sheets. we posted our thoughts on anonymous accounts that go hand in hand with a little lock sign in the corner. we used thunder in our words knowing that reaction that resulted resembled lightning.
as if a tattered canvas could make up for your bruised and battered soul
here’s my advice ; leave the doors unlocked just for a day, you might be surprised at what you find
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
When everybody tells me that I can be anything I want,
I was born to do what I want,
I believe them.
So, I was born to be wild.
Or maybe I was born 2 b wild (numeral and letter)
or brn2bwld (no vowels nospaces)
I'm a poet and I'm proud to say
**** form and while im at it, **** the word
*** (no c) and **** the grammar of needing to put the apostrophe in im
Because I write as i want i am as I want and nothing can
Change that.
like gatsby the Great i have given birth to Myself and
I am me, no
One ELSE
not even gatsby or any Ayn Randian wetdream dreamed of on a midsummer night because
fk (no c no vowels) Shakespeare and fitzgerald and the shrugging atlas
becuz (uz instead of ause)
this is Me
and no One, not a duckface peacesign Mona Lisa or a bandanawearing bazookawielding Benjamin Franklin
can ever destroy
t h a t
because (no change) I am born to be wild (no change)
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
Pretty sure
I drank too much
At your funeral.
Snowflakes were
Falling softly
On your coffin.
Watched them
Etch your death
In roman numeral.
I etch them
Into my thighs
Too often.
With my
Whiskey breath
I learn to soften.
I sink with you.
6 feet deep,
Yet unforgotten.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
It's late at night when you realize she's not the one you loved,
or anyone for that matter.
It's late at night when your mind,
a towering serpent of indecision and malnourishment,
a rushing stream of water from the broken end of a fire hydrant,
tearing through steel and ice cubes that litter a middle age class of numeral reunion,
discover the over-keyed lock where metal bends and screams.
Covered in flies and rice,
it retains its bondages, exchanging freedom for self-loathing,
Dirty-dying in single file,
a honey-gilded tune not thrice too soon.
I seek the corridor where my true love will wait for me,
breathing me in, yet the cane of a blindman.
A clopping corridor, sleek and cobblestone,
artificial and vast, astral.
My true embrace will be that cold one of death, knocking at my door,
pleading my friendship,
sapping from me ***** and calloused hands.
A wet kiss on the nose, a reddened tongue.
I don't know the latitude of my existence.
I can't feel the reality of my throat,
of the gushing and the breathing of winds,
blocking the eternal stream of air.
The currents broke, and from within blew a heavenly melody,
that pierced cold ears boundlessly.
Again, that same street.
Lit faintly from above and from the participants in its ritual.
They burn the wax together.
And they sink,
O paradox!
Together, with their victories of mental triumph,
they recede further into torment and inefficiency,
quantified and numerical,
arrange themselves by merit and consequence.
Again, they sink and plummet and fall,
deeper into wonder and beauty.
Until it abandons them and spills over the edges,
splattering the circumscription,
dabbing alligator skin and sunglasses.
Inspecting the damage done,
he lifts from within its belly a tattered and worn skull,
that of a Man, no less.
Rusting in the desert, alone and among his gods,
bone-dry plains and dunes of dust,
rumbling agelessly the shaken scared earth.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
Starry Starry high moon nearly half of waxing
trailing the son running the show in Great Barrington
Western Mass., the Berkshires always so dreamlike as if like on
account of such frostings; and we prepare details in so many ways
for so many days dark or light no difference this way this it's all him first
of there and last to leave likely then I'll be still again the usually there but otherwise
he'll cover my door and I'm my own creative spectator and scout when more involved I'm a holy rout';
also I am fully prepared for out a sleep under stars in the small town I love Smithsonian said as small ones be you may consider it numeral one to be; be it or not your cup of tea or time for such; I may seek the church by morn with to be and by the story with the song and story within Alice's Restaurant would seem soup kitchen on turkey day might be an ordinary thing to lend the love with arms hearts and hands if not Kripalu best yoga center about and food there be a walk in just a simple fee and best of company so kids are so well growing up and slowly I'm waking from my own harrowed cup; and I never stop loving with all hate or betray all betrayals or feel more need of forgiveness be I've done enough and so much more and in perfect abandonment and all betrayal all the more seven billion family be and this beautiful universe that rings and rings and rings sings singing all love all beauty be and all is willing and shares all that too; rocks and trees coming greater still, waters woods wilds calling routing for us all ever closer the Great of opportunity ever ripening within about to fall upon us all....
<3 <3 Pump Pump jump start it up!!!!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 4:50 AM UTC
let hands speak what mouths
cannot prattle
let eyes dream what sleep
renames with its tranquility
let love undo what
hate has wreaked and
let fingers saunter infinite
strides when feet sojourn
let this quiet bellow
a hundredfold of sound
and let soul dance when
we have departed,
enisled here underneath the
brow of a terminal day,
its numeral tasks unfold
in the night full of silences
and let the world feel the cold
of brookwater when we cannot swim—
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Roman numeral thirteen:
How speedy is the process of evolution?
Darwin's diversification is slow
How many believers are there?
Or, are they familiar with the white rat?
No end to the beginning
No beginning to the end
Camouflaged against the mellow bark of the tree trunk
Appearance suddenly allows a moment of escape
Depending on what you're looking at
And then what happens is
on and on
gnosis, nonsense, beautiful
& The Question
which
is not really a question at all
rather an invitation to an event
to draw it all back
with awe, laughter and fear
Mimicry is not camouflage
All reflections of myth
are visible in the living narrative of experience
punctuated by an absurd humor
infused with timeless moments
in which we glance upon
illumination, ecstasy, madness
very near yet very far
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
Fue domingo en las claras orejas de mi burro,
de mi burro peruano en el Perú (Perdonen la tristeza)
Mas hoy ya son las once en mi experiencia personal,
experiencia de un solo ojo, clavado en pleno pecho,
de una sola burrada, clavada en pleno pecho,
de una sola hecatombe, clavada en pleno pecho.
Tal de mi tierra veo los cerros retrasados,
ricos en burros, hijos de burros, padres hoy de vista,
que tornan ya pintados de creencias,
cerros horizontales de mis penas.
En su estatua, de espada,
Voltaire cruza su capa y mira el zócalo,
pero el sol me penetra y espanta de mis dientes incisivos
un número crecido de cuerpos inorgánicos.
Y entonces sueño en una piedra
verduzca, diecisiete,
peñasco numeral que he olvidado,
sonido de años en el rumor de aguja de mi brazo,
lluvia y sol en Europa, y ¡cómo toso! ¡cómo vivo!
¡cómo me duele el pelo al columbrar los siglos semanales!
Y cómo, por recodo, mi ciclo microbiano,
quiero decir mi trémulo, patriótico peinado.
1k
You're late for your funeral
Good cause I don't want you to be just a numeral
another number on a statistic
Time is a killer and it's sadistic
Let's be realistic
although you have wisdom
of sages
I don't want time to take you although it rages
You mean to me the world and more
I am sure you will not need to go through heavens door
Right now for sure
Hold on a little longer
Linger in this life
For our separation would cause me much strife
Don't let time take you into its void
Where I cannot follow.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if in my old age,
I will be remembering these nights.
Not the nights I cry, nor the nights I smile.
The nights where I stare. Melancholy.
The nights where Faith had ****** my memories.
The nights where Katriana had dashed my hopes.
And the nights where Jami gave me reason to not blow my brains out.
But not really. They all just, they are memories.
Except maybe Jami, she might be a thing.
But the pain I feel is not a memory.
It's right here, still burning.
And I don't know what to do, except, just. Force myself to breathe.
Force myself to keep pumping blood.
Force myself to remember that people aren't intrinsically bad.
They just, **** up and love somebody else and **** up at that too.
And **** me. **** me for having these thoughts.
Who was I to enter these women's lives. A poser. A stalker.
A creep.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
after its legs got subdued
for the ages of the sun
so stopped a wonder
at a roughly odd
in which corner
on the doorless temple
the first step will begin?
in which steps
an arrows hit the rain stream
so the count be unimportant?
the numeral explode at the sky of your eyes
it's pieces of fragments got scattered
insert in between the niches of
the womb of a language
but none of us can't
utter an intact word
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 9:29 AM UTC
nature dictates two things; the
complete & utter destruction
of any & all things, & rebirth
late 18th century: alteration of & per se &
‘& by itself is &,’ chanted as an aid to
learning the sign; the ampersand is the logogram
&, representing the conjunction "and"; originating
as a ligature of the letters e & t [et]—Latin for "and"
[Wikipedia]; Other letters commonly used with: &c.
(etc.: etcetera; Latin, from et ‘&’ & cetera ‘the rest’;
neuter plural of ceterus ‘left over’), Language of origin:
_Latin_; Alphabetical position: 27th
Writing system: Latin script
Variations: ﹠, ∧, ۽, ⅋, ＆, et, ,
'et al' from Latin et alii
a punctuation mark (,) indicating a pause between
parts of a sentence. It is also used to separate items
in a list & to mark the place of thousands in a large numeral
2. in music a minute interval or difference of pitch
3. a butterfly that has wings w/ irregular,
ragged edges & typically a white or silver
comma-shaped mark on the underside of
each hind wing. late 16th century (originally
as a term in rhetoric denoting a group of
words shorter than a colon; see colon (1):
via Latin from Greek komma ‘piece cut off,
short clause,’ from koptein ‘cut.’
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
With trembling legs i boarded the bus,
Looking at the monsters around me...
Taking the corner seat,
Lost myself in the cover of book....
I m gonna write in years,
Legs denied the initial step....
But the gentle hand holds my hand,
Taking my fear away...
To Mary-Go-Round & See-Saw,
Charm started flooding my face...
N so i made the cover of my book,
Day by day shivering legs got stronger..
Monsters now seems to be human,
N corner seat faded away...
As tiny-tot reforms to be kid,
Every new day was an adventure....
To write down a new chapter.
Jumping to school from kindergarten,
Slowly playgrounds enlarged..
From See-saw to indoors,
Mary-go- round to outdoors....
Alphabets become theories...
Lovely rhymes turned out,
To scientific logic ...
Brain has increased,
Memory is still in childhood..
N this took me to new phase,
A new chapter of my book.
Learning in this phase....
Numeral hands help me to grow,
Guide my through my path...
Taught me to live,
Embracing the happiness...
I made memories with them,
Print them in My heart...
Making another superb chapter.
Visualising the decline..
In length of smooth road,
Adventure seems to...
Be scattered n different,
But still with hope to be together...
I give the full stop,
To be best gift ever.."My School Days".
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
Great, another succubus and what not
A sluut, a fuuck bot
Put enough coin in the slot
Allowed in on the spot
That's a ***** is it not?
Body count is the first and last Roman numeral on a clock
Multiplied by a lot plus one added in between every tick and tock
So yeah, no, I'm gonna boycott
I don't want to get got
Cause I'm sure the shiit that she's got
Ain't eradicated with a simple arm shot
In a way making sure she's never forgot
Don't want to always be middle of the list of who's hit it within earshot
Don't need some side thing messing up the main plot
It's sad but it happens a lot
It's either the wrong lid or the wrong ***
©2024
Feb 5, 2024
Feb 5, 2024 at 6:21 PM UTC
Convinced that there is no life after death,
Convinced that no god watches over me,
Convinced my actions never really count.
I don't believe.
But for some blasted reason there is one person,
Tried true and tested rigorously,
And this one woman I trust. I believe.
I believe in love.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
This old and twisted thing,
arranged in awry futility
like most lives circumspectly:
a pair of denims
washed in the Sun,
a slow laburnum glowering.
face-ovals perfumed with
the camphor of such departure.
the hand waving the weight
of the night's obsidian
is the love i take in - dull or sharp -
as it arrives, tired as a crankshaft
or a waned piston
this junked engine, wheeled off,
looming a light-clenched house
with its exhaust of excess. declension.
rife as a numeral being. repetitive like the drivel of radio talk. heavy like the sudden drop
of Sunday on the plod of chapels,
once more into this.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
What number do we
seventeen
sixty three
and does she number us so?
In feeling less than it
and
still getting on with it
head to the grindstone
eyes on the goal
I get the whole picture
I am the prime number
even as time
jumbled me up
I stumbled back up
to get back down with it.
For every funeral I go to
every numeral takes on
another meaning
do you know what I mean?
what number do we
when we only see
the next number in line?
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 3:16 AM UTC
when something that I used to adore
love
like
enjoy
doesn't become those things anymore
what does it become?
good memories?
something else?
everything enjoyable has to be broken into parts and made complex
and overthought
and competitive
and it makes me tense
it's not fun anymore
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
***"Things take time,
But time takes things"
***
*When I was a child
I always wanted to grow up fast
But now, feels like I'm in the wild
Lost in the world so vast
Growing old, adding numbers to my life
Afraid to be an adult and it's strife
They say age brings wisdom
But I~ just getting dumb
I am moving
Yet I go nowhere
I do not know if I'm improving
Or if I'm off to somewhere
Turning 22 isn't a big deal
But why does it terrifies me?
The idea of life getting more real
Transition to adulthood I can not see
Maybe I'm not yet ready
of a bigger world and responsibilities
Because my feet aren't always steady
and unsure of my abilities
I was not innocent
and definitely not immature
But I always face an awkward predicament
Because my life, is constantly unsure
Yes, 22 is not young, but not too old enough
to have a clear mind and smart tongue
So I just have to shrug this feeling of rough
And enjoy the feeling of young
Age and time, we could not defy
So as life and its formula
Running out of time, is a big lie
And age is nothing but a numeral
Age and time, definitely
Does not define maturity, nor brings wisdom
And I couldn't tell much, technically
Because, as I've said, I still lack in wisdom*
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
When you think of me do you think of what you feel or what you see? Do you just see the tattoos on my skin or can you feel what they mean to me. I am not a statistic or a numeral. I can not be put into any category for there is only one of me. Yet, two parts of me (Ying&Yang;) My flesh that deceives you with a smile and a cheerful expression, and my soul which cannot tell a lie but can only cry and fantasize about not knowing the truth. "The truth shall set you free." if only these words were true to me.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC