"omits" poems
Off on a tangent
My fingers in transient
Clasping and clutching
sensing and touching-
While they still can,
Before our crossroads split
And exigency omits
That peculiar feeling of familiarity
And all absconds that impression of clarity
Then it is goodbye
With all relics of that high
All remnants of our contingence
Because our futility is insistent
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC
You will often find me dreaming
Here on my lonesome, lying in bed
In my darkened room and wondering
What will become of me. Whether
The days shall pass by without
Me seeing a smile or the gleaming sun.
For there is nothing but the sun
To make you enjoy life, enjoy dreaming.
Who could go every other day without
The lovely thoughts you think in bed.
I imagine it being unnerving, whether
Or not your dreams are full of wondering.
I have vivid thoughts, often wondering
Why I’m free of nightmares which hide the sun
From many others. My question is whether
My mind omits such terrible dreaming
Immediately as I awake safe in bed.
Why must I be the one to go without?
There is no harm in I going without
Though it does provide me with the wondering
Of how such a thing can be, my bed
Is where I can escape to, escape the sun
And what comes with it. No dreaming
Can be done with such blinding weather
I often think to myself and question whether
Or not I can truly say that I go without
Having a single nightmare. The dreaming
That I do is so bizarre and leaves me wondering
How it would feel to fear the burning sun,
To fear falling asleep, to fear lying in bed.
How would it feel to fear lying in bed?!
Not wishing to allow yourself sleep. Whether
Or not you could fear such a thing when the sun
Is such a beautiful thing, and the moon, without
Them both our world would be left wondering,
Asking this question to themselves ‘Am I dreaming?’
So make your bed now, or go without.
Whether you choose to remain wondering
About the sun, about the moon, you’re dreaming.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
The first time you asked me if I trusted you, I said "yes"
The second time you asked, I said "it depends"
But when the third time came around I answered with a "no"
Because after all this time, how could I trust someone who lies, and omits, and only speaks with half-truths?
Someone who hides their feelings deep inside never to be revealed?
It's not that I don't want to trust you, but you don't trust me
And I can't risk another one of your betrayals, because it would **** me
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Lovely thoughts are shackles.
They invoke what even the microscope
omits from the commentary
Well-prepared cups of tea on Sunday afternoons
The dragging of fountain pens retracing ornate loops.
Each a relief from the threat of whatever crisis interred
by the quiet of a room
The practical, the indulgent, without progression.
The contemporary pastoral
is to be found
Amongst old boxes
of boy's adventure paperbacks
and girl's glitterworn and broken hairbrushes
Shooting the mind off to tragedies
whirring still away at even further distances.
Memories, like sentiments
when copacetic
Provoking always the invasive link
the dependent, the pathetic.
A picture of a doomed ship in storm
Hung on the red carpeted wall of a restaurant
A jar of olives
left untouched
for decorative purposes
in the old grain store
which now serves unfiltered coffee
and plays loud but pleasing music
'til 6 p.m.
What I have spoken of are McGuffins.
The mind distracts.
Yes, the mind encounters,
we discover, we make lists.
But if you can remember
minutiae, try then to remember
History is the repetition of revelations.
The reel does not cut off.
In short,
don't congratulate
Yourself about life
until you've at least seen the nursing home.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
I want to write a poem that smells like perfume
that flits and that flips through a rose-tinted room
all wispy and wet and cosmic and cool
I want to write a poem that omits all the grease
the fierce firing squad, pimps, perverts, police
to tickle your fancy and make you go guuguu
I want to write a poem that moves through your veins
like sweet fairy dust not shackles and chains
be part of the pop cult, feel the pulse, feel the pulse
I want to write a poem that travels lit-up highways
with no broken bulbs, no sirens nor slipped gears
without red-danger zones nor emergency phones
I want to write a poem with soft cuddly toys
and trinkets and things that make no loud noise
to nibble your chin and that sort of thing
I want to write a poem with an innocent face
that softens your edges and slows down your pace
'til you're won and you're one and you purr and you hum
I wanted to I really did
2015
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
Do not spoon feed me,
with your fleshy hand
Love has no palate
He's pompous and bland
My belly is tumid
your cream is too thick
You blaze with the fire
our flame has no wick
You burn me to ash
say, "I don't feel a thing"
Light a few matches
your heart doesn't sting
Smoke like a chimney
see if I care
Go on, get wasted
you've minutes to spare
Why not let liquor,
dictate your life?
She's done it before
she'll make a good wife
She won't let you drive
she won't let you speak
She sounds like most women
what more do you seek?
Your blunt and your flask,
they make a good pair
The flask omits me
the blunt omits air
I often bite
I'm like the wind
'Forgive me father?
I have sinned'
Of the seven deadly,
is pride the worst?
Shall I speak with God
or Satan first?
If I ask for God,
I find a queue
If I ask for Satan,
I find you
Is God the devil
when he's drunk?
Has he fits of rage?
Has his liver shrunk?
I love God
you are him, my fiend
Though you've never been handsome
Though you've never been kind
I bleed darkness
down a rusty drain
God, you are my darkness
God, you are my pain
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:14 AM UTC
the smoke from his lips
quietly omits into the dark
he turns to face me with
his bloodshot, glossy eyes
"i want you" the drugs said
the substance in his system
had complete control over him.
- you never wanted me
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
I cradled the unfurling shed snakeskin delicately
admiring the imprint of faces and places
swallowed up in time.
An ancient amative light sat patiently
on the blank sheet
before the electric medium;
the electric medium sitting buzzing
eager to tell another silent story.
I wrapped the skin around its spindle;
and from its den I extracted slowly and cautiously,
urging the skin into the hungry buzzing medium--
And minute punctures in the skin,
where the projector's teeth sink in,
whose teeth chatter like plastic wind up dentures
as the skin passes snake-like through its dusty plastic entrails.
The tattooed skin is illuminated at the heart of the vessel--
where the countenance of a single solitary bulb
omits a radiance, brilliant and magnificent--
powerful enough to cast the skin like a shooting star
across the darkened room
onto the patient white sheet
where my eyes await the tattooed memories
to dance before me.
I sit in my torn and weathered leather chair
echoing the silence of the screen--
(hypnotized by the hum of the projector--
an incessant electrical drone accompanied by the bombinate
incantations of chattering crickets.)
The stories are shielded from my inquisition
by layers of translucent grain
that leave textures gritty--
and a soft focus that leaves faces obscure
and expressions ambiguous.
(How clever you are to stay silent,
and leave me in such tempestuous musings!)
Vast pores pop up excitedly burned and scabbed intrusions
and if you linger for too long
the brilliance of the glare will burn into you--
Like the shaman who dances too close to the holy fire.
Like Apollo flying too close to the sun.
I must be careful,
and fully aware--
of your transience.
These ambulant hieroglyphs
speak volumes in their silence--
and I find myself drawn
to the blurry smiling faces
as they peer into my soul.
History breathes.
and History repeats.
but lies silent
in the sands of Time.
Becoming muddled,
but waiting.
for its story to be told;
for the mediums to rise from the grave.
I suddenly agnize myself as the last generation
to have its memories and histories burned onto tape.
and as I sit here I wonder
of the Society
whose soul I will peer into--
when I am unearthed
out of the sands of Time.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 4:31 PM UTC
A poet doesn't lie,
a poet omits
the suppressed thoughts and sensations
she will never forget
The painful memories she hopes to create,
The ill-tempered words
tied to strings of hate that
L o o p--
a reoccurring
pattern of
maladjusted
thinking
A sense of dread churns in your gut,
writhing behind your chest cavity,
invading your consciousness,
shutting it down
Perspiration begins,
and the rattling in your bones
Nausea sets in,
reeling your blood
It's happening again,
this you know,
but time will not tell
when this attack will go
Your throat constricts
while time afflicts
everything you've kept inside--
the emotions you've kept alive
when you should have set them free
captives of your debauchery
they've transformed into something ugly,
the wretch of scorn and self-pity
and have unleashed their vengeance
for smothering them with poisons
depriving them of breath,
and of their destiny
They're doing unto you,
what you did unto them,
killing you tediously,
disrupting your mind with
irrational fear
and depleting the dopamine
transmitted through your system
to plague you with indifference
towards reality
The symptoms it carries
manipulate your thought-process,
restarting the l o o p--
a reoccurring
pattern of
maladjusted
thinking
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
This is what life is, we don't really know where we're going, it is an every second exploration and observation of the time that passes us by. This is what it is to live.
We take part in making choices for ourselves which sometimes affect those around us, we have energy that the earth omits and energy, we emit.
Movement.
Our brains are like pieces of granola in a big bag, not one piece is exactly the same.
So we watch life, take part in it, to try and form into a "person", we make this game of living worth while.
But some of us, wonder, what is our purpose? How did we end up here? How did the earth form itself and progress into such a technologic, crime-infested, polluted, whirly world.
Non-Utopia.
This place can be such a wreck, everything can be seen different throughout each of our pair of eyes, or we may just have one eye or colorblind eyes.
Perceptions.
I don't really ever pay attention or even look at every part of my body and study it. It's amazing to me how intricate each ***** and our entire body is, how our body is such a team. Everything works together and if one thing goes wrong, we have our blood cells and other things inside of us that will back us up. It's incredible, but do we ever really wonder how we were made, what the real roots are, not just our mothers and fathers, but way back when....
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
The glossy raven-crow perches on the wire,
Its carefully-preened wings glistening
With perfect drops of moisture.
It surveys its domain with coal-black eyes—
Coal-black, but not void, not empty—
Black with all the absorbed knowledge,
The deep black of knowing too much,
The tacit black of the extraterrestrial skies.
The raven-crow omits a sound into the air,
Silent to some, but volumes to others.
The raven-crow spoke directly to the air,
And the air understood the message.
The two share the deeply-seated secret,
So it’s not as much a burden as before.
The sun falls into the embrace
Of the curvature of the Earth.
The raven-crow, having received its cue,
***** its obsidian wings once more,
Sending crystal tears to shatter midflight.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
There is no such thing as freedom because you can play God
because he only pretends to sit in his sofa castle
laughing at your foolishness
eating your baby noodles
Anyone can play this game but I won't stand for it
because spilling their guts makes it criminal
because it makes me liberal
like it's all okay
Their cynical smirks and superior rationale
burn me alive into a ******* Charleston
I curse them all and **** them all
and I am ****** for it
Words of evil percieved only as evil by the weak
because killing and ****** is a neccessity
a demand for destiny which the world stages
it's freedom for all but the just
I know I know nothing unlike all the other pigs
they can cheer and chortle because they're boxed in their world
epileptic to my hare-ful truth that means nothing
because I am an ignoramus who is free
To the glamour dressed diesel alcoholic
to the giraffe-wearing radicalist
to the artistocratic plum-picking ***********
to the uneducated, cock-smoking secretary
to the briefless, cold-handed ******
to the green-spiked punk with a polarized attitude
to the one who sent nukes overseas to G**bless other countries
I pity your concealment; your pathetic, two-dimensional box
For I know nothing, so when you find me
Sit me down, and shoot me in the ******* head
Because you wish you had nothing like me
So find me and burn me on the stake
Huff the audacity my smoking flesh omits
Breed your Reptilian filth over my dead body
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC
A tremor, an empty cup of tea,
next to my veinous hands,
there is a cat sitting at the table.
Large as a bear, fat and bulging,
With whiskers as long as the wings of an albatross
and a tail that knocked over a lamp.
Cat flourishes his claws and says:
"Midnight has passed, why where you imagining me before I was?"
Rain enters the room,
pulls his thick, heavy coat around him and omits an
odour of nightly summer pavement.
What a gang, the three of us!
Collected to outlive the night.
When Sun rises and wipes away all that Rain has accomplished,
when Morning comes and clears the fog and ideas,
Cat is yet to be imagined.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
Heaven whispers peace in my
Ears, it rings so
Loudly, so all encompassing, too
Long has it been since its toll.
Ice freezes balefully on the borders,
Smooth lines drawn on the edge.
Careful grace,
Omits and voids any fears, any
Malicious shadows of a doubt.
I walk among these clouds,
Not seeing that it is all
Going so well.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
I have come to memorize the simple things like, your face or the way you look at me when I laugh
it's your voice I'm trying to find
I see your lips moving
and your sculpted teeth
and the way your eyes crinkle up into a smile
but your mouth omits those sounds of a stranger
a blend of noises I have heard before
but where's your voice? I can't hear it but
I can see it
[you are lovely]
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
Even from across the room
Violet crescent moons age her youthful face
Black makeup smudged under her eyelashes
And hair in a messy bun but still slightly curled
The only remnants of the night before
Evidence of a snoozed alarm and
Lack of sleep
Exhausted
Both mentally and physically
She tries desperately to grasp full consciousness
As she begins her work
Earbuds submerged in her ears
Leaving the world around her behind
Engulfing her into a world of art
Both visual and musical
Where sonnets become songs
And bars of notes start to form beauty
Eraser shavings everywhere
Either on the paper or pushed aside
Her hands move swiftly to the beat
For once just let me lose myself
And she does
In her art
She glances back and forth between papers
One a model and one her masterpiece
Not fully formed
Precision is key
Perfection
Ruler to ensure exactness
Eraser to rid of mistakes
She draws one line perfectly straight
And leans back
She contemplates and shakes her head
Then omits it
Goes back again to draw another
A twin to the first
The process is endless
Striving for impossible perfection
When true imperfect goodness is there
Underneath the frustration and complexity
Is simple and utter beauty
What is perfection
When you can have art?
December 2013
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
I am consumed by
negative spaces,
floating in between
death and the void,
looking for reason
that won't come
and there is no use
in running from darkness
when it's what brought us
here at birth
and the only thing
we part with in the dirt
If the way out is through,
why do they stay and
mock the despair
behind my eyelids?
They laugh as I search for
purpose that doesn't exist
in lieu of aliens that
I swear are real,
when reality has always been
my Achilles heel
It's a dance of avoiding gravity
until inevitability strikes
a heavy blow, that life is
random circumstance
siphoning into black holes,
a collection of moments
that we will forget to remember,
but how does one find peace
without answers?
Daylight starts peeking in
to see if I'm okay,
I disguise the sentiment
as irrelevant
when I could really use a break
from this carousel of fear
that only
wants me to want more
as if I am owed a life
that is somehow past due,
checked out by someone
who was less afraid
to step outside of their room
Sunlight omits
more concern over
reckless abandonment
as it greets my pacing force,
but there is no stopping
what was designed
without brakes,
carried by all the love and hate
that glorifies impulse to
sift through emptiness:
a sacrifice to this
blank screen
that consumes me with dread
over a deathless dream
stuck inside my head
Mar 17, 2025
Mar 17, 2025 at 7:44 PM UTC
Worthless stories from the drunken source, Create the hovel and this curse.
What lies ahead in despair,
As laughter and scoffs fill the air.
Oh, could it be my dignity or maybe even shame?
All that's left is stale *** breathe and tears from everyday.
These puddles grow into a lifestyle,
I can't let time stay for a while.
Noone is going to be sorry,
Blood omits the story.
So carry out the rest of luck with help from the abandoned.
And let this problem be the first of many to be done with.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
Traveling by sea, as the darkness omits light onto thy tide, I have no place to run, and no place to hide, my fear is cold and my strength can't die, I've kept head above water for so long, and now with my deepest and darkness cry, as I stare at the sky, and ask; why try, why cry, wait I don't deserve to die, while I cry my final sigh.......
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
If found her beauty, then have found my eyes:
As painter's draw their muse, do mine of hers;
That when in blink her lovely youths apprise
Depicting truth as tho' by glass transfers;
No dreaming brush omits the slightest curve
Nor other light bestow that grace increase;
That artistry does best by mind preserve
So she through time bare not of time's decrease.
Yet could the years by force of cruel age,
Redraw by season's pen what I had drawed?
No! Art's the soldier 'gainst what time can wage;
Whilst skin may crease, by heart is none withdrawn!
But when her portrait's gaze outlasts my time
This canvas shall replace her frame with rhyme.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 7:39 AM UTC
(
)
(
)
(
)
\/
/\
/ \
## ## ##
& the god !
•
In the cracks and crevices of reality
( frightened eyes )
////
The lovely girl !
////
I heard a girl crying
I' M BROKEN !
I' M UNLOVED !
//
( I smiled )
I' M HERE !
•
WHO WANTS A ******* CREEP LIKE YOU !
( she said )
••
That's a line she omits when writing her poems !
/////
He stepped in some dog **** on the way to school
••
In the quiet of the truth
///
She is such a lovely girl !
//
We marry each and every day
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
beginning with the circle, for there are three,
in an "abstract" sense of staging the Δ, i.e.:
Ω
Υ O alternatively:
o υ
ω
thus in deed... (macron as omega, in greek acute
accent on upsilon to extract omega, or the p(oo)l sound..
acute on the omicron?
gives you upsilon... omega = macron
on the omicron)...
however the Σ (totality) of this observation?
how many s esses are there, orthodoxically speaking?
s, ś, ß (a german grapheme, variant of the roman æ,
æsc, sszett - albeit the latter invoking consonants,
the former? volwels),
the greek will now provide the aesthetic twins:
σ, ς (whereby the latter, created the french
ç, which is another form of s... e.g.
in the word waiter: garçon) -
the final s form? akin to ß... but the germans
would write it as -sch-,
east germans say it when writing ich...
in english the compound is -sh-
sharp...
in slavic it's: either -sz- a variant of
the english -sh-, or with a caron, e.g. š...
like the car-manufacturer: škoda... which, when said
in adverts... omits the diacritical mark.
how many "satans" can you see? count:
s, ś, ß, σ, ς, ç, (-sh- / -sz- /) š:
eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben...
you can site that seven headed hydra in the book of
revelation... right about now.
oh sure... let's go crazy, put an extra head on the beast:
the cyrillic ш... some sort of rigid omega, or worse still...
an uptight double-"u".... it's a V, a ******* V, a double V!
qui? qui? wee? wee? it's a soft-v!
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 9:20 AM UTC
Eenie meenie little souls
How I wonder, be thou cold?
Stay thee in thy secret spot
Stripes of iron, cloth be naught
See we nothing, hear no sound
Sight omits thy tattered gowns
May death be kinder? Death be quick?
Yes. Death be gift by candlestick
We’ll send thee bread of molded clay
To save thee from thy wicked ways
Of clashing blood and god and skin
Inhuman made by ink of sin
For church reveals the sacred spot
Of heroes draped in thoughtless thought
Of condemnation, fears and tricks
And bearers of the candlestick
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 11:25 PM UTC