"oxygenate" poems - Hello Poetry

Close your eyes count backwards from fifty Asleep you shall fall Surely, but swiftly If that doesn't work It's okay, don't despair Count imaginary sheep As they leap through the air You need to catch some z's Your body is tired Ignore the mere fact That your mind is so wired Oxygenate your cells Don't worry, just breathe Feeling relaxed yet? Soon you'll drift to the land of dream What's that? You're still up? Perhaps you're just parched Grab a quick glass of water Then back to bed you shall march As long as you're up Might as well make a snack Digestion should wear you As the food makes way through your tract You've wasted enough time Now back to your slumber Collapse onto the mattress Slide under the covers Each day you face your demons Though at times it feels you're not winning Inhale, exhale slowly Now let's start again from the beginning

0

Feb 14, 2016

Feb 14, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC

FreeBird

Insomnia

Close your eyes count backwards from fifty Asleep you shall fall Surely, but swiftly If that doesn't work It's okay, don't despair Count imaginary sheep As they leap through the air You need to catch some z's Your body is tired Ignore the mere fact That your mind is so wired Oxygenate your cells Don't worry, just breathe Feeling relaxed yet? Soon you'll drift to the land of dream What's that? You're still up? Perhaps you're just parched Grab a quick glass of water Then back to bed you shall march As long as you're up Might as well make a snack Digestion should wear you As the food makes way through your tract You've wasted enough time Now back to your slumber Collapse onto the mattress Slide under the covers Each day you face your demons Though at times it feels you're not winning Inhale, exhale slowly Now let's start again from the beginning

32

Somewhere beneath the broad darkness and the landslide, there’s a pocket of nothingness, like the air bubbles that oxygenate red wine. And somewhere inside that, there I am, mime-hands loving Stevie Smith and all she stood for. A void is just a void, and a poem is just a poem, no matter how you read it. You can bring this into the church and line it up with the stained glass, looking for a hidden meaning, but I know this nothingness intimately, like I know soft skin and the taste of ***** and there is nothing to be found in there that isn’t already inside you, except maybe warmth and candlelight and the idea that nothing is too far gone to not be saved anymore. Sometimes, I think people intentionally obscure what they mean, like they’re not good enough for a line break, and like it’ll be easier to rationalise being left behind if they were limping from the start of the race anyway. Anyway. Sorry about this; sorry about all of this, I just really like how it looks when you try to work any of this out. Because it looks dismal. It looks like a pregnant sundial churning out another day, another day that might be Sunday, but it also might not. It’s not like I know. I think this stopped being a poem a few lines ago and started being something to burn, instead, but you can take the smallest of lighters to the mightiest of Goliaths and they’ll scream all the same. I heard that lobsters scream if you put them in boiling water whilst they’re still alive. I feel like that sometimes. I don’t know if I’m the lobster or the water, most days. I think I know now. I think I know something, now, at least.

0

Aug 9, 2020

Aug 9, 2020 at 7:10 PM UTC

gk29003

Don’t Read This

Somewhere beneath the broad darkness and the landslide, there’s a pocket of nothingness, like the air bubbles that oxygenate red wine. And somewhere inside that, there I am, mime-hands loving Stevie Smith and all she stood for. A void is just a void, and a poem is just a poem, no matter how you read it. You can bring this into the church and line it up with the stained glass, looking for a hidden meaning, but I know this nothingness intimately, like I know soft skin and the taste of ***** and there is nothing to be found in there that isn’t already inside you, except maybe warmth and candlelight and the idea that nothing is too far gone to not be saved anymore. Sometimes, I think people intentionally obscure what they mean, like they’re not good enough for a line break, and like it’ll be easier to rationalise being left behind if they were limping from the start of the race anyway. Anyway. Sorry about this; sorry about all of this, I just really like how it looks when you try to work any of this out. Because it looks dismal. It looks like a pregnant sundial churning out another day, another day that might be Sunday, but it also might not. It’s not like I know. I think this stopped being a poem a few lines ago and started being something to burn, instead, but you can take the smallest of lighters to the mightiest of Goliaths and they’ll scream all the same. I heard that lobsters scream if you put them in boiling water whilst they’re still alive. I feel like that sometimes. I don’t know if I’m the lobster or the water, most days. I think I know now. I think I know something, now, at least.

41

Sensory deprivation douses my days Neither perfume, nor pictures to placate No cadence of a voice contrasted No distractions, now look away Ban all Color chromatic avian avoidance But It only takes one slip to oxygenate those sacred sepia images You were the reason! you eviscerated “grey” the enormity of a pixilated instant::: the shadow of a look Arise again, stand tall and seductive, awaken a cleft heart again but the pleas go unheard and callous knees make for hollowed souls this crawl so familiar, hallowed, fetching... as I look now, upward at your carnal, cardiac, catharsis I find that familiar rush The drilling down of blood ::: Presses through once indifferent veins (my lamentation inoculation... you are viral once more) Imagined love had seemed so tame. The cataclysm corners, hidden well in green eyes, inauspicious, until it’s time (to strike) tensions feast on the remaining light (dusk remains, night yields, but those eyes they’ll haunt forever). When was the last time I grasped your fingers? When jungle lust simplicity gave way to the steady silent ether of complacency I knew I had lost her Yet, I still reach for the smell of you on my hands. It’s no longer there. The cruelest of nostalgias to soothe my most masochistic of reliefs.

0

Nov 23, 2018

Nov 23, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC

clark-davis-hitchens

Sensory

Sensory deprivation douses my days Neither perfume, nor pictures to placate No cadence of a voice contrasted No distractions, now look away Ban all Color chromatic avian avoidance But It only takes one slip to oxygenate those sacred sepia images You were the reason! you eviscerated “grey” the enormity of a pixilated instant::: the shadow of a look Arise again, stand tall and seductive, awaken a cleft heart again but the pleas go unheard and callous knees make for hollowed souls this crawl so familiar, hallowed, fetching... as I look now, upward at your carnal, cardiac, catharsis I find that familiar rush The drilling down of blood ::: Presses through once indifferent veins (my lamentation inoculation... you are viral once more) Imagined love had seemed so tame. The cataclysm corners, hidden well in green eyes, inauspicious, until it’s time (to strike) tensions feast on the remaining light (dusk remains, night yields, but those eyes they’ll haunt forever). When was the last time I grasped your fingers? When jungle lust simplicity gave way to the steady silent ether of complacency I knew I had lost her Yet, I still reach for the smell of you on my hands. It’s no longer there. The cruelest of nostalgias to soothe my most masochistic of reliefs.

40

White knuckles, clenched ping-pinging on textured glass. Unfazed, he turns his cheek, followed closely by his deaf ear. So I stay stuck, hopeless, tugging on some hem, with a relentless, gut-twisting hunger to be acknowledged, to be comforted and cradled, to be lulled and hushed— pleading him to poke some holes in the lid of this jar. I used to oxygenate my blood so beautifully— flush my pale skin to pink, press it against yours, and breathe. When I had air, I used to inhale so deeply. I used to live. I used to conquer. I would wake myself before the dawn, if only to brighten his dark corners. I used to breathe before life in this jar. I used to catch his glances and celebrate as the reason for his smiles. Before life in this jar, I could reach him, and he would reach me. He would pick me up in his smooth palm and hold me in my place in the sun. With warmed cheeks, I’d kiss him softly on the forehead and thank him in wide, grinning whispers for the lift. Before life in this jar he would never find me gasping for the strength to make breathy apologies simply for existing. He would never find me enjoying such a slow motion asphyxiation like I do as I live life in this jar.

0

Aug 15, 2014

Aug 15, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC

bforshort

empathy for a lightning bug

White knuckles, clenched ping-pinging on textured glass. Unfazed, he turns his cheek, followed closely by his deaf ear. So I stay stuck, hopeless, tugging on some hem, with a relentless, gut-twisting hunger to be acknowledged, to be comforted and cradled, to be lulled and hushed— pleading him to poke some holes in the lid of this jar. I used to oxygenate my blood so beautifully— flush my pale skin to pink, press it against yours, and breathe. When I had air, I used to inhale so deeply. I used to live. I used to conquer. I would wake myself before the dawn, if only to brighten his dark corners. I used to breathe before life in this jar. I used to catch his glances and celebrate as the reason for his smiles. Before life in this jar, I could reach him, and he would reach me. He would pick me up in his smooth palm and hold me in my place in the sun. With warmed cheeks, I’d kiss him softly on the forehead and thank him in wide, grinning whispers for the lift. Before life in this jar he would never find me gasping for the strength to make breathy apologies simply for existing. He would never find me enjoying such a slow motion asphyxiation like I do as I live life in this jar.

43

Re-oxygenate my body Push air throughout my lungs Poison the rest of my body, let it soak in my vessels Break my crumbling bones Please, understand my needs There is no cure for cyanide Let my blood boil; Allow me to sink into the floor Let your breath be my last

0

Feb 11, 2017

Feb 11, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC

luna-craft

A Cure to Cyanide

Re-oxygenate my body Push air throughout my lungs Poison the rest of my body, let it soak in my vessels Break my crumbling bones Please, understand my needs There is no cure for cyanide Let my blood boil; Allow me to sink into the floor Let your breath be my last

9

i'll hold my conscience like a penny and toss it in the well because i don't want to know, i could never know let the pressure of decision oxygenate with the copper i want to swim in an Italy ocean brighten the blue in their eyes so i can see what was supposed to be erase the lines we though't we'd trace this painting was never ours to remake melt that penny i want the zinc mold it to a chisel and i'll hand it over i'm still covered in dust from that mine i worked in for years shave my corners soften my edges unmake me create me.

0

Nov 3, 2013

Nov 3, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC

dilectus

pay attention who is speaking to you.

i'll hold my conscience like a penny and toss it in the well because i don't want to know, i could never know let the pressure of decision oxygenate with the copper i want to swim in an Italy ocean brighten the blue in their eyes so i can see what was supposed to be erase the lines we though't we'd trace this painting was never ours to remake melt that penny i want the zinc mold it to a chisel and i'll hand it over i'm still covered in dust from that mine i worked in for years shave my corners soften my edges unmake me create me.

21

His head expelled rancid muck onto the river bank moss while I stood there peeking behind buildings wondering if the sun has risen. I’m cursing the wind yet again but this time its coupled with sheer rocks that work to extract blood from my yellow calluses. Downstream the fluids combine. The ripples oxygenate them and work them like arthropods billowing towards their first meaning. With him still face down I wallow over his body. Picture his last twitch. Ponder neurons and relations to souls. We’ve only developed thus far and I want to be sure this relies solely on an impacted min instead of mystical authority. I don’t want to be invaded.

0

Aug 18, 2015

Aug 18, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC

sam-h

leaking temples

His head expelled rancid muck onto the river bank moss while I stood there peeking behind buildings wondering if the sun has risen. I’m cursing the wind yet again but this time its coupled with sheer rocks that work to extract blood from my yellow calluses. Downstream the fluids combine. The ripples oxygenate them and work them like arthropods billowing towards their first meaning. With him still face down I wallow over his body. Picture his last twitch. Ponder neurons and relations to souls. We’ve only developed thus far and I want to be sure this relies solely on an impacted min instead of mystical authority. I don’t want to be invaded.

25

Inspiration I found you hiding in my old drawings of stick figures fighting each other until they became disfigured See I figured if I could draw enough of them I could create movie scenes Tales of epic battles, wars of brutality unlike a beauty queen An escapist at heart, imagination captivated by these moving parts A pencil in hand would create everything I couldn't see but only imagined inside of dreams These daydreams would then change things in the motions of my grand scheme My grand scheme is of art expression from the heart No ******** no judgment **** you if you judge this I do it! No, I do it well Read my past works Your eyes will swell I promise, If my words don't alter your brain cells Then let me oxygenate fumes inside of my main valve To only release steam my seams are of mage spells,magical potions, words scattered in slow-motion Motion-Picture this drawing in class was a little kid mechanical pencil was his choice of instrument rehearsals were illustrated diabolical foes, dramas fueled with energy, enemies killed flows, Of static electricity, I'd draw till my fingers lacked elasticity. now my imagination is as stiff as can be. I'm constantly drafting, drawing & dissecting a piece Whether it is a visual or audio wave I just rinse and repeat Reconstruct from a core, let that core have seeds From those seeds sprout plants and the idea of trees.

0

Nov 21, 2016

Nov 21, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC

stellarhero

Inspiration I Found You

Inspiration I found you hiding in my old drawings of stick figures fighting each other until they became disfigured See I figured if I could draw enough of them I could create movie scenes Tales of epic battles, wars of brutality unlike a beauty queen An escapist at heart, imagination captivated by these moving parts A pencil in hand would create everything I couldn't see but only imagined inside of dreams These daydreams would then change things in the motions of my grand scheme My grand scheme is of art expression from the heart No ******** no judgment **** you if you judge this I do it! No, I do it well Read my past works Your eyes will swell I promise, If my words don't alter your brain cells Then let me oxygenate fumes inside of my main valve To only release steam my seams are of mage spells,magical potions, words scattered in slow-motion Motion-Picture this drawing in class was a little kid mechanical pencil was his choice of instrument rehearsals were illustrated diabolical foes, dramas fueled with energy, enemies killed flows, Of static electricity, I'd draw till my fingers lacked elasticity. now my imagination is as stiff as can be. I'm constantly drafting, drawing & dissecting a piece Whether it is a visual or audio wave I just rinse and repeat Reconstruct from a core, let that core have seeds From those seeds sprout plants and the idea of trees.

34

one breath to oxygenate a hearts beat for love one silent song running through your mind one moments fullness to live and explore one more time stringing words a poets heart on show.

0

May 19, 2017

May 19, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC

nivek

one moments fullness

one breath to oxygenate a hearts beat for love one silent song running through your mind one moments fullness to live and explore one more time stringing words a poets heart on show.

8

At night I lie with my head pressed against a pillow and my ear folded under listening to myself. I am fetaled. Not the loose sitting-position adult fetal. The legs tucked up into my chest arms wrapped around them fetus fetal. I listen to myself. To the blood flowing through my arterioles, rushing up to oxygenate my brain and fuel my Night Thoughts. Ba-thump goes my heart like that of my mother’s when she and I were one- my worries none. Ba-thump. I listen to myself and replay the day’s theatrics. But I am smarter, and funnier, and less awkward of a person. My jokes have the right timing and are well received and I am benevolent towards all and I am admired. Or... my mistakes are amplified. Everyone thinks poorly of me and I can’t believe you said that you ******* idiot. I talk to myself in a way that would be unacceptable if I were speaking to anyone else. For a time. At least until I am quelled by the heartbeat my mother gave me and I gain solace with my ear pressed against the pillow listening to it. Sometimes I listen to my life, count the beats like stars in the sky and wonder at that cosmic origin that created Mother Earth that created my mother that created me listening to my own heartbeat and likening it to the stars in the sky using the synapses that outnumber the stars themselves. I have a lot of time to think while I listen to myself. At night I am a psychonaut exploring the constellations of my own mind. I’ve named them Fear and Love and Hope. Ba-thump, ba-thump.

0

Mar 6, 2020

Mar 6, 2020 at 9:49 AM UTC

travis-kroeker

At Night

At night I lie with my head pressed against a pillow and my ear folded under listening to myself. I am fetaled. Not the loose sitting-position adult fetal. The legs tucked up into my chest arms wrapped around them fetus fetal. I listen to myself. To the blood flowing through my arterioles, rushing up to oxygenate my brain and fuel my Night Thoughts. Ba-thump goes my heart like that of my mother’s when she and I were one- my worries none. Ba-thump. I listen to myself and replay the day’s theatrics. But I am smarter, and funnier, and less awkward of a person. My jokes have the right timing and are well received and I am benevolent towards all and I am admired. Or... my mistakes are amplified. Everyone thinks poorly of me and I can’t believe you said that you ******* idiot. I talk to myself in a way that would be unacceptable if I were speaking to anyone else. For a time. At least until I am quelled by the heartbeat my mother gave me and I gain solace with my ear pressed against the pillow listening to it. Sometimes I listen to my life, count the beats like stars in the sky and wonder at that cosmic origin that created Mother Earth that created my mother that created me listening to my own heartbeat and likening it to the stars in the sky using the synapses that outnumber the stars themselves. I have a lot of time to think while I listen to myself. At night I am a psychonaut exploring the constellations of my own mind. I’ve named them Fear and Love and Hope. Ba-thump, ba-thump.

1

On this day May 3rd 2016 I will stand stronger than ever I will not capitulate To obstacles that are placed in front of me I will no longer endure Insidious patterns of abuse That I have accepted in my life Instead I will listen To the inner voice of justice The voice that champions The human rights of all people I will not accept the petty taunts And stealthy disregard of peoples No matter what or where their background I will be a person who is part Of a movement of change I will not be afraid of fear I will hold it close Recognising that within fear Lies the possibility of change I will bring Repressed feelings to light And oxygenate the infections That are buried deep. I will not fear The shouting voices of blame I will be the person I was meant to be From this day I accept responsibility And will take One courageous step After another I will not be afraid of heights Any more

0

May 3, 2016

May 3, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC

commuter-poet

Fear of heights

On this day May 3rd 2016 I will stand stronger than ever I will not capitulate To obstacles that are placed in front of me I will no longer endure Insidious patterns of abuse That I have accepted in my life Instead I will listen To the inner voice of justice The voice that champions The human rights of all people I will not accept the petty taunts And stealthy disregard of peoples No matter what or where their background I will be a person who is part Of a movement of change I will not be afraid of fear I will hold it close Recognising that within fear Lies the possibility of change I will bring Repressed feelings to light And oxygenate the infections That are buried deep. I will not fear The shouting voices of blame I will be the person I was meant to be From this day I accept responsibility And will take One courageous step After another I will not be afraid of heights Any more

36

Up and down Listen to your heart follow the joy and Supplant negative with memories of the good. Tend towards the positive. Plant that black tar with flowers that oxygenate, allow breath, replenish.

0

Mar 26, 2024

Mar 26, 2024 at 7:23 AM UTC

jana-b

Oxygenate

Up and down Listen to your heart follow the joy and Supplant negative with memories of the good. Tend towards the positive. Plant that black tar with flowers that oxygenate, allow breath, replenish.

10