"oversaturated" poems
Oversaturated in grease,
Frying in the light of embarrassment,
Here,
Take a plate and pick off the unnecessary,
With oily fingers to stuff your bellies,
I give you my pleasure and you give me pain,
Bite off the circuits of my love called an aorta vein,
I can't sit here wondering if you love me,
I need some source of validation,
So stop chewing on my heart,
For your own parasitic elation,
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
Tonight, she taught me the nature of healing summer rains
Whimsical descriptions of dancing in puddles, but
Metaphors only serve to drown her pain
Dry on the surface, swearing inside the drought sustains
But dew droplets in her eyes betray her restraint
The morning after, the storm remains
Little flower, bent at the stem
Oversaturated by the self-absorbed
Her waterlogged roots weighing her down, but
In fields of bloom they still look to you
See, the weak reach for the easily used green and blue tulip hues
But her yellow petals require strength to be pulled from the meadow
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 11:41 PM UTC
What I am, I don’t know.
What I do know, however, is what you are.
My eyes have traveled over your person for hours, and I have studied your intellect.
I observe, I don’t make conclusions –
for that would be a sabotaged investigation of the potentiality of your existence.
The ‘you’ I speak of is nobody at all really,
it is the world around me in all of its embodiment.
I soak in the culture as I live amidst the chaos,
and my mind becomes oversaturated with sensation.
In San Francisco, yes, San Francisco, the sweet smell of diversity,
the push of movement walking up Powell Street and the creak
of the old elevator in Rasputin Music.
On top of a hill in Indian valley, a moment of freedom –
the air and I, we hold hands.
The wind and I, we run along picking daisies off their stems
until only the unwanted ones are left standing.
In the middle of a crowd in Golden Gate Park, waiting for the band to appear onstage;
I don’t know his name or hers, but they are very close to me.
Sitting here, on my bed,
flipping pages and pages as books progress;
if only my own storyline were half as intriguing.
Way up here in the air, this plane’s motion makes me tremble.
Occasionally I am distracted by the beauty of what’s outside the tiny window,
and the feeling of omnipresence I attain pushes past my anxiety;
the world is below me and I am defying its weight.
In precalculus class, I reach a strange state of tranquility;
I can finally revert to the robotic motion of pencil and calculator,
a momentary lapse from the stress of the day, and the world.
All in all and end in end,
poems are poems but it mostly depends,
everything is contingent,
and it’s all ambiguous of course.
That may be description of the world – or rather, one of myself.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
Oversaturated
The colors you provide are somehow tainted
I can't take it
Huffing paint makes me feel amazing
Green makes me feel jaded
Even though im homeless i pray i dont make it just to pledge allegiance to satan
Red makes me blue
Seeing her go
Disappear into hues
It had to be her
But i'd rather it you
I gather myself into a corner and blame myself
New
Allegations of chasing tail just to get head
Moments spent worthless as pennies when i'd rather be dead
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues,
and this is mine:
love is not blindness and his especially
his love was not blindness
he saw everything:
what was there
what wasn’t
nonetheless he rested at reading-glass distance
everything in hyperfocus and bigger, like he wanted
like a futuristic camera: oversaturated, overbright
love is not blindness—
love is literature, or wine, or a lens flare
his filled my gaps with what he wanted there
he saw more than the camera did
I cannot condemn, nor could I ever, his amber propensity
to imagine me. to beg literature is a dodge
of responsibility of which we are all
most equally
guilty
and the devil is in the details
that stitched up such an
achingly different forever
than the one he saw
love is not blindness—
his wasn’t, and mine wasn’t
—but it is literature: permission to fill the page
permission to distrust, like I did then
like I do still
forgive me my own amber propensity
to feel the paradox
there
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
I look out the golden window to see the grasslands full fleshed and full breasted ripe trees bearing oversaturated fruit O yes and perhaps It is the fruit beholding the shine and plump perfection that looks of Grand artifice O apples so crimson I could barely touch it and the rich roots and Ra hangin'a'bove, it is a delightful Saci's-cap-red and each apple seems to be aligned in various patterns of crisscrossing and interconnection, bordering on random but almost calculated I look down at the breakfast table I am seated in capped with Irish breakfasts for all O It is the bare Nature herself and her youthful manifestation, strong and deep into the ground, it makes me feel no turning back, no regret from the small passionate days of pleasure, feeling that beautiful girl Marie, like Nature herself toned to the rivers and mystifying like from the clouds to the depths and our lips jamming brushing feeling against mine O I felt guilty I felt I was taking all the sound and the fury for myself I was eating ll the fruits in the garden, fearing a mistake, being caught, not giving chances and only wishing to please my immediate soul; as the great Wilde said, "I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom." but yet I feel between us a growing, a yearning that is blessed and twisted; graft of Love, starting roots of naked Love sweet connection, Big Time Sensuality; buds in our hearts--the ****** soil has been sown yes O this new Spring is coming and a rite of passage passing finally we have made it past restriction and now a new Spring has finally come! the foggy marches of April lose track and pace, and my exuberance comes swiftly but my prayers and wishes for a beautiful quiet life come with the best intentions of grace; hopefully, surely, wonderfully. Dieu en aura plus tost de vous mercis.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC
I still don't know what poem to write!
Write about the black man's plight?
Nah, oversaturated and a little too light.
So, ... We'll scratch that.
After this maybe someone will match that.
But seriously, maybe about me.
But I'm not free or open
And you don't wanna hear about how
I'm 24 years old and spent the last 12 smokin'
Ya probably think I'm joking.
But seriously,
Some would call this this writer's block.
Then what am I doing up here
Just wasting my 15 seconds of fame
Before I leave ashamed
Drowning my pain in a bottle
Of someone else's Success?
So who will it be tonight?
Jack, Remy or Jimmy?
But before I go
Do me a favor
Please applaud.
So I don't slump into a depression,
upon realizing my pocket's recession
So a flew claps can sway my pain
So please do me that favor
And don't let me leave ashamed!
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
I roll my eyes instantly at the mention of "race" and "gender"
Having been oversaturated and now it's bitter on my tongue
Taught to look for agendas and obssessions
Hyperfixation on trauma and eras and mental health
I suppose everyone is mentally unwell when we go seeking for what makes us damaged
And perhaps we are delusional, creating things that aren't there, but we speak it into existence with the power of our lips making shapes and noise,
creating the next trend, lingo, aesthetic,
grouping, pairing, splitting, naming,
explaining away everything.
God this world makes me dizzy.
Feb 6, 2024
Feb 6, 2024 at 12:35 AM UTC
factual or fake
terse or sensationalist
trying to be as objective as possible
shamelessly partisan and polemic
or simply hate speech
esoteric remedies for all problems
cat videos and personal snapshots
on asocial networks
whether we believe it or not
it is difficult to avoid it
in our great age
of real-time digital information
the abundance of unreliables
is almost legendary
like hearsay in the Middle Ages
when wandering minstrels
spread the tidings
more or less
a challenge to all people with brains
not yet oversaturated with daily trivia
to decide what to believe
doublecheck
do follow-ups
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
Old age hit me
like a fist
I was planting roses
carelessly, never anxiously
avoiding their thorns
my teeth were my own,
I could bite into a hard, green
apple easily
there was no consequence,
no fear of an explosion of
false enamel
vegetables grow into
something beautiful over time
if you treat them right.
unlike the shell of a woman
bleached, oversaturated,
badly composed, framed
by misery.
A seventeen year old girl
bending into the hands of
a childlike man
unaware of the flames
she was igniting,
her body slamming
into the kitchen floor
you will cry in the morning,
weep for the innocence
you lost, the shock of
surviving your own
******
unwantedly.
I was thirty before
I tried to disappear
back into the oblivion
of filthy London streets
thirty pills, one for
each year, a litre
of ***** and a
badly written
death note
I survived. Just long
enough to paint a
picture of adulthood
a husband, a wife
a son, a daughter
I was everything
and nothing all
at once
old age hit me
like a fist
a rattle of dust
in an urn
and a hundred of
the flowers I have
always hated
they cry, thinking I am lost,
I smile, knowing that I
was never found
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
Why break unto the will of the suffering when the summation of the whole amounts to nothing.
We can hold on to oversaturated dreams that portray a future not yet broken.
However, that past is where a misery is left, choking, a soul of unbreakable will with love.
Much like a moth diving into the most beautiful flame,
Expecting to be warmed rather than burned alive, but from the inside.
The internal struggle of aspects far deeper than the sum of four simply arranged letters.
From the habits we have to every emotion we display,
The meaning that fits between the space of each letter is an infinite array.
The construction of the connection so strong, it is only bound by the effort given in pursuit of that bond.
But like a pond still as glass, there is more underneath the surface for which to grasp.
We tread through life with water like emotions, hard and cold or warm and soft.
We take flight to places far beyond, breaking through emotions bonds to a new state of mind.
A soul so confined to infinitely roam, having lost the line that ties to the reality, stingingly true.
A wondering light, often too bright for others existences, never choosing a direction of conception.
But with the detection used by inner wisdom of once overturned beliefs, a soul that learned.
In the end there is little we can do to affect the grand design, to change the laid path or rewind time.
We are a grain of salt, melting away...
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
The way you lie to me is so addicting.
I know it's an intoxicating oversaturated sweetness, but if I want it to be true bad enough, then it could be, right?
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 3:48 AM UTC
Its been raining for days,
The clouds seem spiteful,
Like they've held it in for too long,
And now they're lashing out,
Seething,
Bursting,
The ground around me,
Oversaturated into a swampy muck,
Each step I take,
Leaves the mud gasping in my footprints.
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 11:19 PM UTC
I am unseen
Existing on the outer rim of this place
One body among the astros of cosmic space
I am a listener
Absorbing every ounce of knowledge I can find
Reserved in a space of my mind
I am a shadow
Lurking among the halls
Seeking solace wherever the light falls
I am a serpent
Calm when at rest
Sorting through prey like a confetti fest
I am a visitor
Fresh new faces glaze over my eyes
Oversaturated smiles are met with shy sighs
I am distant from every peer
Bitten by the fangs of fear
Unrecognized by anyone
Stuck watching from a one-way mirror
I'm not someone who belongs
I am a Stranger
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
This night could’ve been a year;
twelve hours, spent clasping dried out soil in between my pillows,
pulling the drought suspended sheets
over my oversaturated insides,
and I wish
you
laid here,
soaking my dehydrated skin-bag,
wrinkling and curling and the finger tips,
with your electrolyte adept palm creases.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
Caught in the midnight streetlight glory
The deprived lay bare, shivering in the streets
Wrapped in blankets of steaming yellow snow
Out of sight is far enough to remain out of mind
Only the white right is entitled to authenticate their rage
Lay your broken child to rest, in their welcome grave
Paid for so generously, by the Imperial NRA
Who knew schoolchildren and congressmen
Bleed the same, to a disputed death
So afraid of the wicked, social state
It's okay if we make our prosperity pay
On the backs of blacks, we made our beds
But it's not up to us to pay them back
Those we sent to fight for us, lay awake in torment
Who could have known, that the greater curse was coming home
We don't have the time or the mind to treat you
If you had laid down your life for your country
At least we’d call you a hero on your tombstone
We have become oversaturated
In who’s name disgraced
To the point where we condone the genocide ‘abroad’, online and televised
Where the blind have truly led the broke, to the ledge
We'll always be okay, should the right price be paid
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 3:55 AM UTC
in two days of solitude
i am announced as the chosen one
to vanquish & conquer the lands
of rehabilitation and trusting funds.
tactics are foolishly oversaturated,
girls are overpowered & manipulated;
for she became the fiercest of them all
and he will soon be the weakest of Nepal
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:33 AM UTC
Three days in - three days of school - and it’s like I never left.
In school, you can get oversaturated with screens. I like books.
They have a sense of permanence, they don’t glare back at you,
and I want something physical I can grip, markup and push off
the bed onto the floor when I get over it.
After three days of class, I’m asking (no one in particular), "Are we there yet?"
I can speed-read if I have a pointer - I use cocktail picks (swizzle sticks?) - you know, the little olive skewers you get in a martini? I have a collection from all over the world.
If I go to a bar and they have nice swizzle sticks, I’ll gather a few up. “What are you DOing,” Karen, (Lisa’s mom) asked me as I scarfed up several from patron’s empty glasses at the elegant, Refinery Rooftop bar in Manhattan.
“I have a TON of reading to do,” I explained, helpfully.
“Don’t even ask,” Lisa shrugged, rolling her eyes, when her mom looked confused.
The trick to speed reading is your eyes (and brain) pickup more than you realize and people tend to pronounce things, in their minds, as they read, which REALLY slows you down. So, you swivel the pointer down the page, following the pointer with your eyes, and Walla!
You can’t do THAT with a computer screen. You need a book, and when you have 2 or 3 hundred pages (or more) a night to read, you can’t just hold your breath and refuse - like a seven-year-old - can you? Seriously, I mean, can we? I’m asking - though it’s probably a little late (senior year).
Now, of course, not just any appetizer toothpick or fruit pick will do - the selection process can be rather byzantine. They must be a certain length, about 2 inches longer than my finger, so my hand doesn’t block the text, and square ones are the easiest to grip. Finally, if they have a little arrow-point on the tip? Well, that’s true love.
The problem is, I can get a little intense when reading and they tend to break. When my roommates hear me exclaim, “God **** it!” At 2am. They usually know why.
.
.
A song for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 5:09 PM UTC
Yea get down Get down with me
I'm not cold I'm oversaturated I'm catatonic
Reality is magic Agatha Christie is Aristotle
I came here with an attitude platitude altitude
I feel nothing I feel everything
Jesus Christ child of God show me mercy
Think I need a doctor I'm on overdrive
Keep me pumping boredom is my nemesis
Watch out for a tornado
Horsemen of apocalypse they've been here
Feeling nada, feeling all too much
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC
I can’t find a way to say anymore
How much dissatisfaction
Comes from the living
In a world where I can’t be
Just my mind
I’m forced to live in a vessel
Submerged in the black waters
That constantly rise
And constrict the throat
That doesn’t exist in my mind
Love is the drug of the ocean
And yet the dealers are few and far
From where I float
Longing for a gust of wind
That’ll blow me over
Into the arms of my one life raft
Lying above the black tar of the ocean
Is the sheer liquid of love
Like oil on water
Yet my body is already oversaturated
And I can’t absorb the love I lay in
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
The morning comes at me in sideways, frenzied swirls; urging the heart to beat faster and the pace to quicken.
It’s energy dissipates into crystallized coatings of sugar and ice cream, covering a path that is the same yet treacherously deceiving; beckoning to run and frolic like a setter after a leaf.
The stride is low and measured with a bounce of flowing possibilities, somehow dismissing the bald, slick mountain orb that holds no one; that holds our existence like glue.
Patterns emerge under a delightful artist notion, layers upon layers, textures melding with form, colors yearning to find their own personality; creating itself from a falling idea.
Tendrils of fluid, wispy inquisitiveness seek to insert their purpose onto the canvas; like rivers of rolling acrylic from the oversaturated master brush. White and grayish drips making their way to an authentic resting place with delving curiosity and untethered adventure.
Cracks, shrieks of cold anguish across the water; or is it chortles of delight at the incessant rage of an unsatisfied bluster?
The force is at my back, not to push and mold me but to buffet the noise from the useless chatter; to comfort and warm like a soothing bundle of goose down without a floor.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
Mama told me we're just playing hide and seek
with men pretending they're police. I love to play
hide and seek. Don't you too?
We are hiding in my neighbour's closet and
I'm giggling. My mama holds her hand over
both our mouths. I and my
mama sit together quietly but I
am hearing grown-ups yell outside. I ask my
Mama why? No reply.
Then I heard a man and mama's face was ice.
He sounded very angry and he asked me where
we are hid. Then I jumped,
yelled at him: peekaboo!
Now it's my story – and others – you read on the news,
hidden by the oversaturated, gold photo
of the front-man; my miserable life made by him
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 5:57 PM UTC
Sometimes my phone sends me an error message.
“Storage almost full,” it tells me.
“Your device may not function properly.”
My device and my mind have that in common.
Words march across pages, grabbing me and
pulling me in, but in the end I am left in
the real world with the stories I have consumed
swimming in my mind. The words are a part of me.
Tattooed on the insides of my eyelids.
When I close my eyes, I am Jo March.
I have sold my hair. It was my one beauty.
Beauty is important because my sisters and
I are supposed to be Little Women.
When I close my eyes, I am Sal Paradise.
Dean Moriarty and I talk for hours.
We dig everything from New York to
‘Frisco, as we continue On the Road.
When I close my eyes, I am Lizzy Bennet.
Mr. Darcy has snubbed my family and myself,
and I hate him. But I love him. If only the two of
us weren’t filled with such Pride and Prejudice.
When I close my eyes, I am Hermione Granger.
I am the brightest witch of my age, and only I
have read Hogwarts, A History. Without me,
there probably would be no Harry Potter.
When I close my eyes, I see the error message.
“Storage almost full,” it tells me.
“Your device may not function properly.”
So I open my eyes.
Who am I?
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
Nope reforming hardened criminal donning
scarred face, manacles jailhouse stripe, et cetera
nor taming screwish incorrigible guttersnipe
ain't most difficult enterprises
entailing me to wipe
dripping sweat from my hoary brow,
neither primary tsoris,
(i.e. Yiddish, asper in woeful gripe),
but reading tome thick as stovepipe
hat, I declare constitutes most grueling task
paging thru compendium of words A thru Z
may rank less purposeful than bovine tripe.
not surprisingly causing mine gray matter
(more'n fifty shades), to wanna up and scatter
fist size shot thru unnecessarily subjected
to feel like oversaturated blatter
vehemently aggrieved mad as a hatter
to appease, boost and flatter
ever shrinking fanbase blithely bandying
faux poetic pitter patter
trumpeting expansive vocabulary
enlivened, leavened, seasoned... smatter
ring poem to expressive affinity
how bajillion combinations
twenty six letters one can splatter
casually incorporating multisyllabic
word such as sesquipedalian
less to boast more so to chatter
up food for thought perhaps...
infect reader to accrue fatter
vocabulary than mine
actually rather paltry yoke cant argue
yukon (albeit figuratively) tatter
with little effort hen even
offer as hors d'oeuvres
to this storied scribbling wildcatter.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC