"overfilled" poems
Look into my eyes and you shall see
The innocence and solitude in me
I am all alone in this massive ball
No one to pick me when I fall
Touch my body and feel
The absence of countless meals
I have dug into several bins
To find a morsel from trashed tins
I have slept on cold hard grounds
A better place, still not found
I was soaked by the pouring rains
And disturbed by noisy trains
I have played with broken dolls
Drawn with charcoal on overfilled walls
I have prayed to all the gods I know
Their love makes my soul glow
I am a child too
Don’t deprive me of you
Cuddle me in your arms
A little crave for love means no harm
I know I am an orphan
And might not even get buried in a coffin
But don’t shoo me away so recklessly
Where is your humanity?
Don’t throw that money and walk away
Please hear me out or for a while just stay
If you know of an orphanage, take me there
I no longer want to live in despair.
-Zainab Attari
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
'All nature seems at work ... The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing ... and I the while, the sole unbusy thing, not honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.'
My fingers can’t trace the origin of the age old euphemism
Its roots planted firmly in childhood paired with sitcom cliches
A conversation never had with my mother
I learned the moment he touched me
My mind buzzed as the sweetest nectar kissed my lips
Arms turned to wings and we flew away
The age of fourteen
A baby learning where babies come from
Innocence poured out like an overfilled glass of milk
When he left I was a hummingbird
Heart at 1260 beats per minute
Fading in and out of anxiety
He was the bee
Flew to the next delicate flower
and ****** her dry like a parasitic insect
Always told to be weary of disguised villains
Old women with apples
Wolves dressed like grandmothers
Never of the natural behavior of pollination
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Chennai has seen another flood
After much rain overfilled lakes
Many swim on flooded roads
As if in a lake to get to destination
Houses are flooded with things
All drenched in flood water
How many lives and livestock
All drowned in the torrent
Yet to be seen when water recedes
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
when you grace the garden
i am overfilled with sunlight!
an intense admiration
leaves me with sudden blossoms
of an ever gentle pink...
won't you come closer?
i don't ask of you to be mine
nor for the warmth of your hands
i simply asked to be loved
every now and then...
and when i realize my feelings are one-sided
my appearance falls apart one petal at a time
leaving me to cry among the decay
when the flower is no longer a beauty
what reason do you have to stay?
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 1:47 PM UTC
I think I’m in love.
A dangerous longing one.
The one that holds me against my will
Leaves me begging by myself.
All alone ’til my sanity decides to rip.
One by one by one. All alone.
Were you really the one?
The one I’ve been waiting for
The one I’ve been drowning here for
Slipping under the waves of desperation
With a side ordered prescription of hope
Excuse me, allow me to make a correction,
A prescription of hopelessness.
Filled to the brim, overfilled with feelings
Mainly of distress.
Someone came to save me,
I’m not quite sure I remember
Where I’m supposed to be.
I turned them away, all is alright.
Everything is fine.
This is way things are,
The way they have always been.
I lie to myself.
The truth is far too explosive to let out.
My hopes are rising, dependent on you.
And you alone.
I suppose they always were.
The realization comes blowing in
Or maybe that’s just because
I left the window open
And in fact, it’s a gust of cold air
Still. I miss the thought
Of you and me,
Together, to be together.
How foolish was I to believe
To invest my being in your
Nonexistent living
I don’t want to wait any more.
I don’t want to be here behind this door.
Trapped.
In fear of my own shadow,
Sacrificing my life, and my nights
For your comfort, for your ego.
I refuse, once again. I refuse.
Louder this time, echoing throughout the hall.
How are you supposed to get the best of me?
In what reality does that constitute
A fair ending for me.
I love you.
But do you even know?
Have you been paying attention...
I miss you
Maybe, not you specifically
But the idea of you
I’m craving for you, for your touch.
The way my body requires oxygen.
So does my mind with
Who I think you are to me.
Why is this reality so difficult
Perhaps this isn’t really love.
Perhaps it’s just another
One of my unhealthy obsessions.
I'm terrified of being alone,
Being by myself, that must be it.
Companionship seems to be
My only escape.
Perhaps, though I’m wrong
And it's worse than I realize
Worse than what I can see
With my own eyes.
And in fact,
Perhaps, I need you.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
The sky is so polluted but it's beautiful, isn't it though?
Feel bad, so to relax, sit outside 7-Eleven with a smoke.
With the way I hold my head you can't even tell I'm poor.
Or maybe you can, because "What's that?" You ask. It's
the loose change in my pockets overfilled to the spilling
You hear me walking, it's no-cash, it's no-wash, the half
blood broke *** All the bad habits, no natural habitat.
Clothes from the Village feel almost as fine on your flesh
as the high class new tags from the corner off 5th/Saks
What makes you happy? What makes you happy?
With just a little more coming in you could finance your
fantasy, or get more freak and nasty. Green is the color
on top of the clouds that catches you falling before the ground.
Shuck corn, remorseless, you can get it paid. Mesmerize
at the numbers rising higher and higher, coerced too
easily to enjoy your stay. What makes you happy?
What makes you happy? The view from the penthouse
on top of the city. Pity. There's no love in the home you
built. There's no cause no effect no affection waking
you up to touch the world with the passion igniting
your eyes and pulsing out your fingertips. One step
from homelessness without one hope, but faith is
a better replacement in the end and I've got faith
in code.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
The many moving things,
moving scenes; that are stuck in between my eyes.
Look at life; and it's fragile creations,
through the window's glass.
Held on the weight of time,
those holding onto their past. But it all must change;
from the old seasons to those anew.
The many winters of cold, soon surpasses on the grass.
So many pictures, so many little things,
and so many moments. All caught in the prettiness
of an everlasting flower.
A tower plant, trying to kiss the glorious sun,
the Son of Man, and the sweetest rose.
The holies of all holies; resides inside of me.
Walking the testimonials upon my feet.
For how far have I gone to seek?
I've seen blackness, as a changing tide of darkness.
A ***** sheet; barely covering the littlest sin. But there's
still the greatest of all light within.
_A Christ within me._
How are my eyes shut to the window;
and their curtains covering itself on a dream?
A dream to be free.
_Freedom of will._
_Freedom of speech._
_Freedom to choose peace._
I scratch the tiny hairs under my chin,
biting the collar of my shirt with my dry lips.
There's no duty to being empty all your life.
No command to live that way, or any sort of drill.
But there's a thirst on my tongue,
running down to my heart. My spirit's cup is waiting
to be overfilled. And to go on and spill.
I as myself,
only long to be spirit filled.
Holy Spirit come inside of me.
_A thousand pictures in the window,_
_and I only long for the one picture of Him._
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 1:31 PM UTC
There's a party around the block,
Where flamingos run and eggs fall from upstairs.
The roof is tumbling and the pool is overfilled with humans and animals,
There's a zebra and ten monkeys running through the house.
****** *********** is rising everywhere,
To the kitchen and the bathroom, to the backyard and the deck.
Balloons are scattered on the floor,
There's food fights in every room.
There's a car crashed into the wall,
People are running around in togas.
The music is blasting through the glass windows,
Everyone is jugging boos and sniffing toxins.
The bonfire is sparking with Barbie doll heads,
The smell of burning rubber spreads throughout the sky.
People are wild with horse masks on their heads,
They're fist pumping and thumping to the repeated beat.
Males and females are racing around **** in the halls,
Paint ***** and BB Guns are being fired on every window.
Glasses of broken bottles are lost in couches and beds,
People are swinging on chandeliers.
The walls start to buckle and shake,
Cops arrive but are being tazered with their own tazers.
The house is being tee-peed,
No one knows why the tub is on fire.
The music starts to get louder every second,
Tables and chairs are being thrown across the rooms.
There are piggy back rides on the front lawn,
Drug addicts are polluting the air with taboo smoke.
People are sliding down the stairway with helmets and pillows,
Many of the people are hung upside down unexpectedly.
Girls get dragged into the bedrooms,
Fights are happening here and there.
Some people are passed out anywhere,
Others are bungee jumping off the roof.
Furniture is left outside,
Lips are locking in the closet.
Fireworks are going off while people are dunking their heads in water,
Twerking is being done almost everywhere.
The house is a total wreck,
And the sun starts to rise over the horizon.
I don't know about you,
But this party was something new.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
There’s a line in a movie which goes something like “pain is good, it lets you know you are still alive”. The obvious question that I can hear you asking is “So when the pain goes away you know you’re dead?” This inevitably leads to a conversation about life after death.
Now that topic can be dangerous if you don’t walk away from the conversation quickly enough, at one of “those” parties, you know the ones; the one you would not have gone to if you knew that the person who invited you believed in the power of healing crystals. So as the bottles of wine get emptier, the part time philosophers get louder and more opinionated about everything from the existence of an afterlife to what was the “real” message behind the final episode of M.A.S.H. And yes, I have been unfortunate enough to actually hear some overfilled part time philosopher postulate a well thought out, theory on the subject at an Italian restaurant in Brisbane and unfortunately was only up to desert so could not escape without missing out on coffee and Muscat and cigars. It was a tough call though. Ah smoking in a restaurant, those were the days, now where was I?
So given the opportunity to choose an activity which you know involves pain, i.e.: Rugby League, running a Marathon, Childbirth or listening to drunk part time philosophers at parties, why would you knowingly throw yourself into any of these extreme sports? Well maybe because the rewards of the end result are worth the pain involved during the activity. So that cool night in that Italian restaurant I sat through Scott’s theory, not knowing at the time if the pain of the story was going to be offset by the quality of the temptations to follow desert. And so that leads me to the reason for writing this. A friend of mine recently wrote. “Apparently any given situation can look good if viewed from the right angle. Sometimes I get cramps!”
Well my friend the Muscat was good that night, the coffee rich and earthy and the cigars cheap but free. Scotts actual theory is long gone from my head but the memory of that Muscat coffee and cigars lingers for twenty years.
I am lead to believe that cramps may be a symptom or complication of pregnancy, kidney disease, thyroid disease, hypokalemia, hypomagnesaemia or hypocalcaemia (as conditions), restless-leg syndrome, varicose veins,[2] and multiple sclerosis.*
So, given that if in fact it turned out that you had one of these afflictions and the cramps lead you to discovering this fact, I would say the cramps; like my terrible dinner experience, viewed from the right angle looks good! Now off to the doctor with you, I’m off to the bottleshop.
*From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
She is preserved at the greenery
fading inside the floating yellows
her mellow as the sun set strikes
face wondering on the future mirror
She longs to encase inside her cocoon
unhurt the pain pierced in her ribcage
the spent morrow of blunt perceptions
wavering the chronic deserted day
She is alone in a world of within
without the touch of the yester clouds
the tremor of her upset is unreliable
watering the chronic ail she donned
She feels the crystal pain on the dial
rails of entrust and forgotten tense
the troubles of the self sacrifice travellers
*trespassing ***** gates of wired shield*
She knows when her well is overfilled
finding a self that can embrace life
the compromised placid meanders
flowing the alive esse of a today
She moans of eons undignified
trying to excavate her sinking soul
the one that made her feel like she
revealing the reality of her unusual peace
She jumps like a seasonal seesaw
illusions parading the absolute truce
a muse of delicate authentic flavours
transversing the idealised time and space
She knows herself best when isolated
when the moon sinks and the night draw
when vagaries explode in the chaotic skies
when the pearl starry sun stares in her iris
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
i.
a child’s edition of your father. in which
the unused
scarecrow
is found
hiding
the *****
mags, the cigarettes
of a sister’s worry, and other
inanimate
markers
of accounting, meant to be
traded
for fireworks, for fat frogs
not given
to snake…
that is, had the boy
lived
to unsee
the water
he didn’t
make…
ii.
(my handle on death)
is holding
a book.
an overfilled
pauper’s
grave / transcends
its archaic
reference
to belly. all mothers
are single.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
We're so used to violence in our schools and on the streets
that when we go home and see it it's in the back seat.
Witnessing a crime against family,
it's like we have lost our own humanity.
The plague in our minds.
Minds, mindset with no direction.
No distractions
So we take to the bottle
with nothing but empty sorrow.
We drowned in them,
overfilled with liquid hate
and pushed down by the sorrow we saw
and felt in every corner of our lives.
We drank till we thought no more...
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
You said:
“I’m sick of poetry.
I bet the first poet was ******
But they all just copied him.”
I said that
Poetry wasn’t like that
It was words spilling
From an overfilled glass;
They staggered and slurred
On the page until
They seemed to have a meaning.
And you said:
“Exactly.”
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Cool winds circling round, deep emerald ocean pond,
in dancing waves you play salty summer songs
of weathered boats and rustic harbor homes.
Seagulls perched about the lawns, some on rooftops peering down
flower baskets overfilled, spilling mad their colors on the ground.
A vacant nest amid the vines so twisty, Springtime birds have all flown
leaving remnant feathers of shell and bone.
Seaweed floats, it clings, wrapped to posts and rings
ocean otters sleeping sound at bay
in a sky of blue, changing hues
soon drifts away the day.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
People say I’m loud,
I just wish my voice would carry with the wind and
into the ears of everybody who’s not asking to hear
what I’m talking about.
You didn’t invite yourself,
I invited you to hear me out.
You won’t hear me,
you’ll hear my object of choice
held high with two hands, to the sky, to the spray of your tear
gas in my eyes,
but be not blinded in sight as you are deaf to the ear,
loud and clear
you see my poison spilled on the mattress my body was mutilated on,
shoving out through my sweaty hands,
drip, drip, dripping onto the streets you defend with
your devices of destruction.
My words weight is less than a million dollars,
less than a tuition,
less than my fore father’s current colleagues
who are counting down days from suits to polo shoes,
making face on the last of their public legacy,
they don’t want a face like me writing slogans on their cities about ignorance and inconsistency.
I guess I’m not loud enough,
it takes more than volume to raise
The roof the roof the roof is on fire.
Save the pen, the paper, your voices and chairs,
your mattress and umbrellas that protect us
from your outrage at my outrageous voice
Silenced by a shield. Silenced by batons.
Silenced by political power without political people,
incorrect intentions, raging with rovers 100 feet above my head
exploding like an overfilled balloon.
You can beat my words down
but you can’t burn my furniture,
bigger than you, bolder than you, screaming louder
through a mouth it doesn’t even possess,
looking on the face of a choir, a whole choir,
asking to cure our disease.
I will hold my symbols of faith, **** and freedom in my right hand
and swear to tell the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth
until our protest has made a difference,
until my metal chairs have molded your thoughts
into signatures on a page of on a page of social justice.
It just is, bigger than you, bolder than you, louder than me,
Don’t test me, Test my furniture.
It will always be heard.
People say I'm loud.
I just wish my voice would carry into the ears
or everybody not asking to hear what I am talking about.
Well, I'm not talking,
My object speaks pretty loud.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
Haunted,
I glance at my reflection in the taps
by the end of the bath
I am kneeling and I plunge my head
down into the bath water
to which I poured scented oils
I feel the weight of my hair
tumble over my head
I don't breathe as my heart
beats faster
I stay under the water
I force myself to stay there
water begins to fill
into my nose and my head
it stings with the pain
I am gasping oceans of water
my head is tossing back and forth
my eyes open,
all I see is the red I paint my
nails with daily
obsessed by the depth of colour
the polish provides
my hands are flat to
the porcelain base
gasping, chocking, I refuse
to allow myself to breath
my chest tightens
I want to stay under the water
until I can no longer
stay,
with no real weight holding
my head to the bathtub floor
I rise as fast as lightening
my hair all over my face
as I sweep it aside
and the already overfilled bath
spills out onto the bathroom floor
knocking over the Sancerre
and there is nothing but my heartbeat
that I can hear,
until at last, I can hear the notes
of Florence,
her album Lungs,
coincidence, or other
Hurricane Drunk
a passing sin, to drown sorrows
in the curve of a wine glass
to dim the noise of
a war within.
© Sia Jane
---
*I'm going out,
I'm gonna drink myself to death
And in the crowd
I see you with someone else,
I brace myself,
Cause I know it's going to hurt,
But I like to think at least things can't get any worse.*
Florence & The Machine
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
I sometimes think it could be ADD
this thing I really know is pestering poetry
it has me by the throat; it has me by the brain
now it has me in my gut, I'll never be the same
it comes when I least expect
it comes when I really don't want it
when I'm trying to do what I do for pay
it comes along brash and undaunted
I try not to do it, truly I do
but it just spills out like an overfilled gutter
"Stop" I tell her "leave me alone.
I don't want to do this" I sputter.
she's always there, that impudent muse
teasing and taunting my head
I can't get her out, I can't shut her up
even at night when I crawl into bed
she sits on the headboard and waits
for her chance to burst into a dream
then shaking me, waking me
in the wee hours she acts out her scheme
she won't take no for an answer
"I'm sleepy" just will not do
it doesn't matter if it's three AM
or if it's barely half past two
she refuses to let me just lie there
"*Don't be lazy! Get up and write it;
you know how forgetful you are.
Wake up and don't try to fight it.*"
There she is, that cruel taskmaster
looking down at me with a smirk
"*You'll do as I say. I won't tell you again,
Now stop whining and get to work."*
she insists that I follow her orders
battering my mind till it's lame
*"You may only write junk; you may only
write garbage, but you'll write it just the same!"*
I clench my teeth; I ball my fists
I'll show who's the stubborn one
I'll show her who's boss
before this (oh, drat, a poem) is done!
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
Listening to the silence of the rain
Sitting in the candle lit flames
Scents of lavender and vanilla
Fill the air , I breath.
Listening to my thoughts
Re-writing some old memories
The wind is violent today
Tossing into the windows,
Is the rain.
So hard, the drops hit my glass
Running down to the ground
To be safe at last.
The puddles are deepening
Sewers overfilled
Streets overcome,
With water they fill.
There's no electricity now
The rain has silenced,
this blackened town.
Listening to the silence of the rain
Sitting in the candle lit flames
Now all my neighbors, will do the same.
Read a book, or read your mind
Be guided by flame,
In the day times, night.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
I wear my watch on the inside of my wrist keeping time by the pulsing of overfilled veins.
If I'm honest, the seconds pass blurry when you are around, red pounding at the blue surface reminding my life of it's vigorous momentum as the watch face marks it's disappearance.
I can do nothing about it's circular cycle, nor the manner in which I mirror it, recycling threadbare thoughts and feelings in ostensible new purpose.
I am a walking contradiction formed of practical mysticism and coffee stained teeth, spinning poetry from numb fingertips onto the ghosts of birch trees, fleeing from my wildest dreams.
Meet me,
half way between belief and reality at the junction of duality and I'll reveal I have no true identity - no creed no name no history,
only chaotic shifting and angry bumblebees drilling sinkholes for visitors toes to curl into as they fashion temporary homes in me.
I am solar soliloquy.
Astrological antiquity curses me to orbit you habitually.
Eye of the storm, hand of the beast, souls of the many downtrodden and hungry, asking for shoulders to stand upon shaky.
Grant me your three wishes, and I will conjure infinity from our palms clasped tight in secrecy.
Tell me,
neglectful lover,
when did my beauty become a pleasurable void, to be touched
yet left unseen,
when did my spirit become matter
buried under the mind of desire and empty chatter.
Humor me,
say that the meeting of our skin is more than physical proximity say,
that you dream of my flowers growing from your ribcage say,
that the gods granted us an opportunity for greatness,
say that our kiss is a portal to Andromeda and that you could get lost there forever - I know I have.
Yet, even light years away I hear the tick tocking ticktick of my heart bleeding into itself.
I am fleeting.
I am deafening.
I am a forgetful timekeeper,
late to my own re-birthing.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Splattered black-red tinged hand-me-downs
Overfilled skeleton closets of thought and memory
Some burn like apollo's flame others are blizzard cold
Stealing into the shadowed corners of my vulnerable spirit
Assisting the grating decay of dead skin dust notes
Back stabbed into flea market food courts
Saturated with the sick sweaty grease and smoke clouds
That permeate the poor and unworthy
Judge with lashing whips, forked knives
Empty cavities hollowed from scraping **** intent spoons
Hungry, ravenous, grasping fallen angel talons ripping
Tearing seams of bleached white from safe haven gray
Not much left inside my stack of broken heart cards
Only spades and suicide kings remain
Grinning spoiled and child like from the seat of a selfish shell
Undo me
Unhinge me
I
Need
To
Bleed
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Cigarette ends tell stories,
to the untrained eye it's poetry wasted,
like an overfilled ashtray that's quickly exposed of,
so eagerly started and ending so unfulfilled,
why do we always enjoy the beginnings
when the best part is meant to be the end..
Cigarette ends tell stories,
so many that will never reach the stage,
but I wonder the most common theme.
Escape, in hail, love, loss, longing,
to the mystery of what interests me.
Cigarette ends tell stories,
memories embedded in their remnants,
so many stories,
I want to know of them.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Glutton overfilled,
Food for thought no starvation,
More is not enough.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
uncovered comfort in
empty nothingness.
outer space and
fields of wildflowers.
drunk on orbits.
jumping off skyscrapers filled with dust.
consuming vases overfilled with memories
and scattered pieces of home.
dark matter summoning tranquility.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
my past is filled with oedipal encounters:
many men i needed to rival
today i unintentionally travelled (really?)
today i involuntarily travelled (no way)
today i travelled into my past:
memories of many men that i needed to rival.
due to my fatherless childhood i didn't have
a man to compete against; that's why i JUMPED at countless chances to do so. none of these conflicts happened by chance.
i picked strangers to compete against.
but then there was this day. a certain day. a secret night.
since then, i have gradually and later on gently overcome my need to compete.
i was bewildered today because i competed against another man. why?
out of the dark, i developed an affection for a woman younger than me; a brief moment of ****** interest. the competitor involved walked her home after a meeting the three of us had been together.
while they were strolling down the street, i followed them. i wanted to see what they were doing. i wanted to observe how they observed each other's attraction.
did so for a couple of minutes; they didn't take notice of me; or they were playing dead while their mouths were overfilled with squishing sounds of saliva.
and then –– as promptly as old patterns of rivalry had emerged ––
i lost my affection for this young woman.
affection left my soul like a spirit leaves a dead body. the affection vanished into thin air since it couldn't find a shelter in my soul. so this wired affection went on a quest for another creature.
i didn't say goodbye. just wrote something down.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 7:43 AM UTC