"oppressiveness" poems
I write to stay alive,
To release the words that tear my flesh
In their efforts to be born into this world.
I write to leave my mark on the universe
Rather than leaving marks on my skin.
I write to prevent the silence from strangling me
In its utter oppressiveness.
I write to wash the sins out of my body
And the stains off of my hands.
I bleed ink rather than blood
And wax poetic to avoid coveting new scars.
I write because it's the only way I've ever learned
To externalize the humanity that cuts me so deeply.
I write because language saves me from myself.
I write because my very existence depends on it.
Feb 4, 2022
Feb 4, 2022 at 8:10 PM UTC
Three years and what do I have to show?
A love sick husband and his alcoholic foe.
There are bottles upon bottles awaiting disposal,
wherein lies my empty proposal,
I will quit.
I will be better.
Things will change.
But does he know of my sorrow and my conflictions?
That maybe "us" isn't the right situation?
That time only told of our failing and misery,
and our inability to escape our unforgivable history.
I hear the hurt in his voice when I call him every day
and I know of the words he's fighting to say,
I can't do this anymore.
I hoped things would change.
It's over.
You try to convince yourself that things will be better.
You try to convince him of the things you wrote in that letter.
I will do what you want me to, to keep you here,
but I cannot sacrifice myself, to whom I am sincere.
A hopeful relationship ruined by an act of selfishness.
A yearning to love but retrained by oppressiveness.
So does hurt, and a want to love save a ****** connection,
or does fate condemn it to eternal damnation?
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 6:49 PM UTC
Look the city is burning.
Can you see it?
This will not be
super flashy
or rise up like a phoenix.
Sleepless eyes
are set in red
aching dry
from crying
for the dead;
While shaking fist
chant and resist
the oppressiveness
that lit this ****
to begin with.
Violence
erupts,
but it was expected,
from seeing the shame
of those who claim
they should be respected
whilst acting like thugs.
It is an irony
that they don’t seem to see
begging for relief
from a similar anxiety
which they imposed
on those
who are just asking for
the grace of human decency.
The city settles
the chaos will resume shortly
and I watch brave warriors
struggle to catch
their tear gassed breathes.
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 11:17 AM UTC
April sheds tears for her time now is over
Departing in flourishes golden and red
Cascading leaves in a curtain of windfall
Settling now to a bright windblown bed.
Gone is the tarnish of summer’s oppressiveness
Gone the abundance of flourishing grass
Enter occurrence of snowflakes in treetops
Puddles of blue ice harder than glass.
Wither thou goest are chill maidens dancing
Wither thou venture there’s fog to the breath,
High geese are flying in formation arrows
Butterflys, faded, departing to death.
May now upon us with icy cold zephyrs
Cloud, nimbo-cumulous stacked up on high
Thunder intrudes with drum roll of Winter
Whilst fork lightning flashes across the cold sky.
Warm scarves and beanies are worn with knee-boots
Firesides crackle in glowing, hot hearths
Starlings in thousands, now settled to roosting,
Shall flock as the morning migration departs.
April relents with the tip toe of gentleness
Satisfied, smiling, her role is replete,
May muscles forth with rambunctious-ness bristling
Impatient to hasten sweet Autumn’s retreat.
M.
Joyous, to be strolling in a country lane, in the swirling leaves of Autumn.
30 April 2016
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
As the likeness of dark; a pathway into
the mind of a depressed tormented soul,—
The beauty of their expression is a walk in
the park. There's a spark to a passionate flame to any art;
But also a hurt of creation from the echo cracks of their heart.
A mountain top I'd have to climb, a large hill made
of stone. A thorn in my side, as the bleeding anguish
to paint out favourable dreams. The kiss of so real;
in a reality painted in the colours of tears. I've seen things
so clear, to see nothing of this world was meant to be so real.
Yet the realest tears of unanswered prayers, falls upon
the bruises of my knees. Real as knowing not all will
believe in you and your dreams. __The Dark's light__—is
seeing past the shadow of ominous oppressiveness.
A lasting restlessness of wanting to impress all those
around, the larger crowd, of painted smiles of daily clowns.
They'd easily praise you being brave—the loudest voice of cowards.
They would shoot you down, _(bang, bang)_
and after you make it big; turn around and say they're so proud.
_(Enemies becoming fans)_ letting it be the case, humble character
wouldn't make a boastful sound. In the end I know my God has
and always been so proud.
There's always a light in the dark.
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 4:48 PM UTC
Oh heavy heart of mine
Why do you struggle so?
Ridding yourself of this millstone
Casting off your sin
Freeing yourself of this burden
Of pain, suffering and torment,
Oh melancholy are ye.
How do I let go
Of this oppressiveness,
How do I cut this tie
Of suppression,
How do I remove
This crushing load from my back?
Show me the way oh Lord
For I come to you
Weary, tired, broken
And seeking another way to be,
Show me the light
Anoint me with your oil
Help me to
Bathe in your love
Know your compassion
Accept your forgiveness
Surrender myself to your will,
And give me hope
Even as I struggle to forgive myself
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 4:08 AM UTC
A young girl climbs the rickety ladder
for what seemed like the hundredth time
eager to enter the castaway world tucked silently above.
The taut metal springs strumming loudly with every step she takes.
The cool air below giving way to a still and searing heat
and she wonders
how long she’ll be able to stand it this time.
In the darkness,
the smell of hard pine fills her senses.
Her hand expertly finds the flimsy string
to the single unadorned bulb.
The light casts brightly around her
fading deeply into the far corners she dare not go.
She looks around quickly
as if to see something that shouldn’t be there.
Her breath releases.
No, she is alone.
Nothing’s changed since the last time she visited here.
Forgotten clothes
old books with lost words
and memories of times passed
unorderly scattered across the splintered floorboards.
She knows the contents of every torn and abandoned bag
every unmarked box
and where every nail reaches out to claim its thread of the cobweb.
Her eyes now adjusting to the disseminating light
she feels the heat beginning its test on her quickly dampening skin.
The green floral dress hung lazily out of its bag
the one she has come to know by touch alone.
Envisioning how it took her mother’s shape,
she lifts the precious memory from its resting place
holding it up to her own small form.
Tears well
sliding down her flushed cheeks
and as if a mirror stood before her
she sways,
enveloped in the warm recollections
of the life that no longer filled the dress.
It is here where she feels it most.
It is here where the unspoken conversation can continue.
It is here where she can dance with Love.
She returns the dress back to the timeless world
feeling lighter and heavier than ever before.
With sweat now flowing freely from her pores
she surrenders to the sweet oppressiveness of this place.
She pulls the light string once more,
blanketing the weighted treasures in blackness.
again,
alone with the dark.
She will always come back to this ascended place
offering each step
every breath
and all her tears.
For it is here where she feels it most.
It is here where the unspoken conversation can be had.
It is here where she can dance with Love.
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 8:39 PM UTC