"objecting" poems
I am sooooo tired,
exhausted..
My mind needs to be shut down,
my head hurts.
Words want to be said but my prides me wounded, my selfworth is burning low
there is a lump in my throat.
I'm haunted by to evanescent nature of my past joy.
Daunted but how far my seems to be.
Yesterday, last week, last month, last year and today have me in the center, wearing the same things, feeling the same,
worried I'm at my end, but a while older
my life seems to be rejecting me; or maybe I it..
I want to be free to exist but everything seems to come with a cost.
There are critics everywhere
even my thoughts have thoughts objecting to them before i receive them and make certain i don't need them.. So I'm running around in circles not knowing why i never got around to things my mind first thought whiles ago,
my will has become meek
my worth shrunk to camouflage with dust specks
I'm exhausted from playing this part,
misguided by the values of what's recently been made 'right'
distracted completely from the life i want to live.
And i don't have a clue which switch ***** it back to normal,
or which life i will leave for those which have grown accustomed to this timid version of me...
After all people aren't always happy when they say. "...you have changed..."
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:30 PM UTC
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
Doors open and close.
I am here,
Silent, eyes open, unmoving
Only the steady rise and fall
Separates me
From the inanimate crap cluttering our house.
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
You see the back of my head
I try to keep myself steady
I hear you turn around
And walk away.
You have better things to do
Than ask why I’m not speaking to you again.
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
You mention absently that
We need new couches,
You don’t want to continue trying,
And that the toilet needs to be fixed.
I can’t be bothered to fight with you,
After all, the couch isn't objecting to you throwing it away.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself
Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death
there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines
the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
protection
protecting themselves from a dark
projection
projecting themselves in a different
reflection
reflecting their own wish for
perfection
perfecting themselves for some final
inspection
inspecting the collection and making a
disconnection
disconnecting themselves with ever
correction
correcting the world with their own
rejection
rejecting reality becomes the
infection
infecting the world with their own
objection
objecting to every alternative
selection
selecting the story of the
resurrection
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
When my doctor diagnosed me as a schizophrenic,
My mother broke into tears, like it was worse thing anyone
Could be, I wanted to tell her to stop, it was starting to feel
Too unreal, I have been living in this mind for so long,
That I have turned against this world, which
Looks at me like I’m a burden to carry, I talk to air
Sometimes, it’s not insanity, not everything you can’t see is
Insanity, I sometimes see my grandmother, and I tell her
I miss her that I’m sorry I wasn’t there when she counted
Her last breath, you might feel it to be weird, but it’s not worse
Than this guilt gnawing at me, my mind is a canvas painted
By thousands of painters, and the pictures here don’t make sense,
But art doesn’t need to make sense.
I feel like a graveyard sometimes, haunted by the souls
That will never leave me, I feel like a morgue sometimes,
Walking around with my own corpse, that bleeds sometimes,
I am not abnormal or special or weird,
I see constellation in people, and I see a ray in you
When you smile, my hand stutters objecting to human
Touch, and I don’t call out for hugs, but this body could use some
Warmth, my imagination doesn’t run ahead, it goes round
And round,
Living in this body, is like inhabiting with a foe,
Which slowly takes over you, and you have no shield,
These meds help you sleep dreamless at night, but
They won’t protect you, nothing will be here to
Clutch on when demons that resides in you arrive,
So all you do is crawl on your bed, trying to take
As less space as possible, not letting the fear
Cover every part of you, you think you’re still here,
But you’re not, and thats exactly how it feels like
Living in a schizophrenic mind.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
Rebellious minds wander through enlightenment
With new found insight into a deeper understanding
An illuminated sense of self - disguised in complexity
Stroking our ego's with a persuasive fascination
Gutless contrarians thriving off schematic exceptions
Objecting to proposals is all that seems formidable
Double edged intellect embracing it's own prevarication
Claiming supremacy as the better half of the equation
One more plagiarized thought to dwell on
Re-occurrence of Ideals in plain lucidity
Come crawling forth from the genetic sea
To stain our mind with a rhetorical monotony
Monolithic horizons expanding out of view
A facade of a paradise - lost in a new weary age
These frail structures collapse and rebuild
reclaiming everything that we once had known
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
This body is to narrow to start the concrete picturesque poetry
As a marvelous bright sparkling spring into the pitch black marvel stone
My poems are shallow water running out of time climbing backwards
Shanti dances, Shakti watches, I ride the glossy magenta mountain byke Elementally through the potentially ***** city, gulping two little
flying spoons wwhhpp mhm
of
Brilliant IO Ag
Helth guarantieed on the nulth spelling positive not
Obtrusive politely declined skipped suggestive
Visually objective little pencil box down bellow
friend _ this is blank !
Absolutely! Absoulutely! A ****** stream of no perservatives no ***
Objecting flowery flunder opiates Words grow from
Barriers between insufficient gestures from human
Jazzy left ear leaving laments of sounds incapability to stay
Endlessly entwined and glued together as your soul loves
Tender tactile cats touch on your desperate desert sju++
Ave Gratias Plena Ava Gardner Avon Avion
My throat is not of a managment made suits suiting suitcases
I'm Tired Of Fraternities Or True Females Always Ends Well
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
You say I love not, ‘cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can’t devise
Some sport to please those babies in your eyes;—
By love’s religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are never found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak but little, ‘cause I love so much.
1.3k
Your mother would be proud of you
That's what you told me
When I asked her, her opinion, she turned and said to me
One day he will be jailed, or my four will become three
When I pointed out your white lies
And each great or small misdeed
Objecting, you'd cry, "I'll make
"Something" from my misery."
I cried, and I tried to tell you before it happened
What comes from this foolish pride
& You cocked your head, laughing back
While spitting in my eyes
Oct 31, 2023
Oct 31, 2023 at 7:46 PM UTC
I stood on the porch tonight and stared into the heavens
The mild darkness and cricket melodies
Took me captive and I couldn’t move or think
The fingers of a midnight breeze tickled my edges
The night was like wine and unlike times before
I drank without objecting, without fear
Of what it would do to me
I should have resisted because before I was aware
I hunted for the Infinite, tried to perceive God
I attempted to span the universe with a thought
But even those twinkles of light are each
More massive than imagination
And I was left to question the sanity of this creation
How do you find a thing your mind can’t define
What can my spirit do when its perceptions
Are limited to five mortal senses
There must be more to life than just existence!
And just as my oceans were getting beyond restless
The midnight breeze and cricket melodies
Beckoned me by name and stilled my waters
And in their voices God said to me
“Child, when you look for me
I will always discover you.”
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
For let the wind whistle,
or let the grass shift;
let you be malicious or omniscient:
upon a flicker of thou brow,
you would never be obliterated.
My heart was sworn to shackles,
chained;now thrashing
pained;now objecting
tortured;yet silent
It was a conquering world:
soiled and weary; with one ruler
it was ruthless; for LOVE brings upon war,
It looked down on all ; love did
Alibi-Romeo and Juliet
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
The desire to live as one pleases
Is not based around staying in line
Nor is it established through
Objecting to all rules you are set.
Conforming can lead you to happiness
As easily as breaking the rules
What fails to be noticed are choices
That let you decide how to live
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
I’m all for freedom of speech for everyone
Without pardoning you for things you’ve done.
Here’s something you don’t get to say to me
You don’t get to tell me I may not disagree!
You who plan constant genocide and invasion
Make pacifists like myself rise to the occasion.
We refuse to authorize you buying a warship.
You act as if that word is very like worship!
Too many scary cowards setting precedences.
In your overstuffed, gadget-filled residences.
You’re issuing orders to send youths to die.
Since you’re not going, why bother to ask why?
Some bribe-taking elite snobs in costly suits
Tell you to send kids overseas in combat boots.
If you rebuke them they bring out the dramatics.
Their reason is their bookkeeper’s mathematics.
In the USA, we waged war after disastrous war
And few of us asked why, and what is it for?
We invaded people’s lands and destroyed it
And there never was a reason to deploy it
An international revenue generating machine
****** thousands on both sides, nice and clean.
Then demand we buy coffee, seven bucks a cup,
If we think of objecting, you want us to shut up.
After all, it’s just one more war, wrapped up to go.
What’s a two or three million dead people or so?
The point it, there’s a bottom line to adhere to
So what it affects or kills someone near you?
Don’t be unpatriotic and ***** with fate.
Genocide is lucrative and an American trait.
Just look what we did to the natives here.
Read that story. What we’re doing is clear.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
I am the flipper
Rejection of shots
And I don't hurt when I dig deep
And I go underground
I am
'Good with words'
yet words seldom ever seem to fall out
Of my flippant mouth
I am nothing that I wish to be
Borderline rambunctious
And my thoughts constantly spill over
When I spout in a crowd
Flipper is flippantly
Objecting
Objectify me now
I am the silent breather that never sends chills down your spine
Yet you wonder if my calling
Has gone overtime
Flipper speak
Flipper be gone
Flipper take shelter
Flipper don't make a sound
Flipper give you best smiles
Flipper win all their hearts
Flipper give them charisma
Flipper keep all your darts
Flipper tires from trying now
Rusting with time
Have I let my guard down
Or am I at last
Feeling fine?
Call it anxiety
Call if whatever you wish
C'mon call it an excuse
Isn't it brilliant to use?
Flipper: better or worse?
Flipper sets off a fuse
Flipper takes over mind
Flipper takes over news
Hush now stories are dry
For you let Flipper in
Build your walls up so high
Just to keep our your sin
Yet
Humans do lie
Courage comes from within
Sometimes it pays to hurt when you let your heart win
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
...and then PETA showed up and wanted to know whether there were sufficient air holes for the lamb to breathe and how the separating of the lamb from its mom went and whether or not the box was organic and free of all chemicals known to cause allergic reactions among lambkind.
The prince pulled out his legally concealed pistol and shot the PETA representative.
The ACLU, not arguing with the prince's right to carry the legally concealed weapon, but objecting to his failure to alert the PETA representative before shooting him, offered to take on the case of PETA v Prince for free, as long as PETA would agree not to protest the Jack In The Box deliveries that would be a thrice daily occurrence while the ACLU readied itself for trial.
The prince, misunderstanding ACLU's motivation and fearing the eventual loss of his right to legally concealed weapons, looked a little harder and deeper at the box and, voila, miracle of miracles, began to see apocalyptic scibblings regarding the fast-approaching war of Armageddon and the importance of a "well-armed militia" in the winning of that unavoidable conflict.
Recognizing the chance to shore up the faithful -- and put to shame the rest -- the Christian Coalition adopted the prince's message and gave it more teeth. They stoked the flames of hellfire, added more levels to the depths of hades, and notched up the sufferings to those found guilty by their Lord, the Good Shepherd.
The ACLU responded, adding the Christian Coalition to the complaint.
The battle lines were drawn. The ACLU and PETA stood on one side and the Christian -Coalition and the NRA stood on the other.
People argued and screamed and fought and condemned.
Then, a little boy of five, wiser than his years and saddened by the preemption of his favorite cartoons in favor of live coverage of the proceedings noticed something nobody else had. Neither side any longer had a picture of the lamb. So he drew his own.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings
we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia
I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties
grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
I have turned into everything I've ever avoided.
I danced in the moonlit darkness of my father
and soaked in the rays of my mothers tragedy.
Vitamin D is only injected into my bloodstream
by judging eyes and objecting vocals.
I never wanted you to tap dance
around my ribcage or fornicate with my insecurity.
I never wanted you to feel like my eyes
washed over you with judgement day protocol..
I wanted you to be free inside of me
so I could take away every fear and instance
that makes you feel insane
and unchain it from every misinterpretation
hung around your neck.
I wanted to be the one you could save,
so that I could be the one to save you too.
My problems are not found in you
and somehow I found refuge
in my dark tainted past
but i'm tired of that being my excuse
it's my sad reality but I don't want it.
You shouldn't have to break, to fix me.
You shouldn't have to melt
to fit into the cracks you are so busy avoiding.
I have turned into my father,
unpredictable and manic.
I have turn into my mother,
paranoid and problematic.
I don't know exactly who I am,
but i'm sure this isn't it.
I will not be a shining example
of the apple that doesn't fall far from the tree.
I will not be the *** that calls the kettle black...
I am my own destruction but I will rebuild me,
because you shouldn't have to.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
We can change history
miss Clarke, it is easy,
just re-write the lies
your historians wrote
about the early settlers
in New Zealand, which
if you had any respect
for, it would be called
Aotearoa, the official
Maori name. Tell the
world about your nations
attempt to eradicate
native Maori and what
is written at the base
of the Obelisk on One
Tree Hill by Sir John
Logan Campbell.
*Laura Clarke is the British high commissioner to New Zealand
<>
Campbell, like many European New Zealanders of his generation, had expected that Māori would gradually die out and that an impressive memorial would be a most fitting symbol to perpetuate their memory.[19] By the 1930s this had obviously not happened, and some considered the term "memorial" was inappropriate with many Māori objecting to its use. During construction of the obelisk, a suggestion was made that it should be described as a centennial tower to mark the centennial year of the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi and not a memorial.[19]
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/jan/02/heres-why-the-uk-wants-to-strengthen-its-relationship-with-new-zealand-maori
Dom Felice Vaggioli The Italian priest who's book on New Zealand was banned by Queen Victoria.
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 3:05 AM UTC
you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings
we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia
I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties
grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
so done.
trying not to let it get to me.
but how can it not?
"wait", i whisper to myself
you have your arms.
you have your legs.
you have a bit of family left and some friends to match.
you're not dying.
you're sheltered.
you're fed.
....why is it so hard to recognize the good?
because the bad is much more overwhelming.
it's helping, but not enough.
i still want to scream.
i still want to cry.
i have manifested every single that that has happened to me.
i've prayed for it, and it's been completely answered...now for me to only slap God a good one in the face by objecting.
what is the matter with me?
God, where do i begin?
i'm lost.
i'm terrified.
i'm alone.
wandering amongst the dead particles of life we call earth.
where do i go?
what do i do?
continue to breathe, i suppose.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
The Art of Criticism
The art of criticism
Should consist
Of accurate, rich language-ism;
Gentleness and witticism,
Care and love implicit
In a simple, clear expression.
Love of th’art it’s writing ‘bout,
Love, respect inside and out
For author, auth’ress, sculptor, sculptress,
Painter, paint-ress, instrumentalist and –ess.
Poet, poetess whose full respect he/she/they merit.
When I read clichés inherent
Such as, “Awesome” “Great” and “Wonderful”,
Thoughtless, glib and under-worked;
When I read “Like”, “Thumbs up, “Thumbs down
I frown.
This plea from Ms. Poetic Me,
Sincere, considered, justified
Is plain ol’ objectivity,
Objecting to a lazy critic.
A good critique
Is not a trick
Played out in adjectives and verbs.
A worthy critic is superb,
Does not disturb
Because he values art and artist.
The Art of Criticism 6.30.2016
Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
His list is long— as he pauses on life
and Mount Wellington's shadows shift.
Those stealing life's song out of young shoots
breathe the longest
while his beloved dies young.
Scars bleed droplets, not gushing
like Cataract Gorge
when scratched, or touched afresh;
not given space—
how he was stung is remembered.
He tries to be the sunrise
over Bruny Island,
but redback spiders imbibe shadows
lying dormant
assessing risk, ready to strike.
Wounds murmur in the Tamar River
objecting, having heard it all,
wearing down joy's clouded lightness.
Rasping scrubwrens warn
while falsity sharpens its spike.
Flattery's forked tongue is honeyed
as leatherwood, but synthetic—
He resists its bait, casting it past the Derwent;
his skin crawling at false charm.
He retains his grounded sense of self.
Time doesn't wipe it all clean to heal—
it calcifies into chilled stone
like Cradle Mountain's fissured misted face
with sticks of pine trees burnt
while eucalypt gums regenerate, partially blind.
His garden grows wild now
through rambling cracks
as grasses from a cemetery head-piece
sport defiant blooms
of an unaccepted genus.
Memory is a compass
pointing due north
past Port Arthur's harried walls
and Antarctic gales
as tales of unfinished lives see, and wait—
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 6:01 AM UTC