"pained" poems
come if you're thirsty, come if you're stained
come if you're weary, come if you're pained
come to the water, the bread and the blood
come to Christ's soul-saving covenant flood
there's no one too ***** no one too poor
no one too broken whose faith He'll ignore
come if you hear Jesus calling your name
come to be free of all guilt and all shame
come if you're willing to cast out old strife
come lay your burden and take up new life
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”
I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“
<•>
*both of you shush!
there is no “better” in poetry
mine yours theirs, alive or not,
just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail
tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse
good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come
they get it
how we get there unimportant
get there
GET THERE
get there
that is the poetic
mission critical
no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace*
the common place
*where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,
a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive
call my poems,
blessedly common!
that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better*
for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered
8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
I want something that I cannot have. I cannot have it because I don't truly know what it is. I've seen it polished and propped as if it were on display and I've heard the stories of how much time and effort it took to make it look as such. But I want it. I want love. I want the idea of it at least.
I want the fights brought about by events simpler and less important than the time we wasted to have them. I want to be pained by the sight of her pain and know that the feeling of knives piercing my chest when I see her cry is there because I would literally drive them there myself, if only to prevent her tears.
I want our laughs to intertwine over the smallest things and our conversations to stretch our minds over the biggest. I want to see you sleep at night and I'll smile because I know that you're finally at peace. And I want you to smile when you wake up because you know that I'm fighting to make your reality better than your dreams.
I want love. I want romantic love, I want crazy love. I want passion. I want to pick you up in my arms and in that brief present get lost in your presence. I want to be in you when I am in you and have you wish that I would stay forever. I want to be in your heart and mind, and I want our love to be torturous and blind.
I just want love. I want the idea of it at least.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
black ice
cold,
slick,
danger in disguise.
pained,
sick from the rain
clear cries
black eyes
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
(for Christopher Isherwood)
Seated after breakfast
In this white-tiled cabin
Arabs call the House where
Everybody goes,
Even melancholics
Raise a cheer to Mrs.
Nature for the primal
Pleasure She bestows.
*** is but a dream to
Seventy-and-over,
But a joy proposed un-
-til we start to shave:
Mouth-delight depends on
Virtue in the cook, but
This She guarantees from
Cradle unto grave.
Lifted off the *****
Infants from their mothers
Hear their first impartial
Words of worldly praise:
Hence, to start the morning
With a satisfactory
Dump is a good omen
All our adult days.
Revelation came to
Luther in a privy
(Crosswords have been solved there)
Rodin was no fool
When he cast his Thinker,
Cogitating deeply,
Crouched in the position
Of a man at stool.
All the arts derive from
This ur-act of making,
Private to the artist:
Makers' lives are spent
Striving in their chosen
Medium to produce a
De-narcissus-ized en-
During excrement.
Freud did not invent the
Constipated miser:
Banks have letter boxes
Built in their façade
Marked For Night Deposits,
Stocks are firm or liquid,
Currencies of nations
Either soft or hard.
Global Mother, keep our
Bowels of compassion
Open through our lifetime,
Purge our minds as well:
Grant us a king ending,
Not a second childhood,
Petulant, weak-sphinctered,
In a cheap hotel.
Keep us in our station:
When we get pound-notish,
When we seem about to
Take up Higher Thought,
Send us some deflating
Image like the pained ex-
-pression on a Major
Prophet taken short.
(Orthodoxy ought to
Bless our modern plumbing:
Swift and St. Augustine
Lived in centuries
When a stench of sewage
Made a strong debating
Point for Manichees.)
Mind and Body run on
Different timetables:
Not until our morning
Visit here can we
Leave the dead concerns of
Yesterday behind us,
Face with all our courage
What is now to be.
13.9k
I know you’ve heard these words before
I've said them many times before
I wish that I could use them more
To make things better like before
There was a time these words had meaning
Sheathed in heartfelt cries and feelings
But a shaman who can't heal
Is just a man and nothing more
Like worn-out, old and ***** pennies
Now diluted by the many
There's so many, many pennies
Don't care there's one on my floor
My cries of “wolf” no longer heeded
When these words are truly needed
To the darkness they've receded
Blindly searching for that door
In my chest still beats a heart
While pained regret tears it apart
Can't fix or go back to the start
And you don’t want me anymore
My anger and my finger pointing
Foolishly like I'm anointed
Not the one you are annoyed with
You were wrong; I was so sure
Attentively I listened to you
In-and-out my ears your words flew
Silenced; Gave no value to you
Truth revealed strikes at my core
Awakening I newly have
With gained awareness of how bad
I took for granted what I had
A rolling tide erodes the shore
Alone I sit and think of when
We were not lovers just good friends
Fun times together that we’d spend
And from that my heart starts to soar
Reality then brings me back
Jolts like a sudden heart attack
A deep sharp pain gives me a whack
I scream until my lungs are sore
Can't fix the memories or replace
My nightmares wake me; Teary-faced
Past filled with guilt, shame and disgrace
Start questioning what life is for
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
Twisting, turning, yearning
That is what I do
Laughing, smiling, cheering
That's what you do
I have sorrows
You have joys
You've hurt me
I've served you
The fairness of this world is as perplexing as a quadratic formula
As I get hurt, those who hurt me excel
As I am pained, others are healed
I see who I once was
Laughing, smiling, cheering
Now, I hardly recognize myself
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
I walked along this path through the trees
Lo and behold, I fell on my knees
For what do I see, but this vision of beauty
**** no, tis a hunk, boy was he a cutie
His muscles well oiled, as he flexed before me
My heart all a flutter, knew not how to be
So what do I do, shall I play the shy dame?
Or should I strip naked regardless of shame.
A moment had passed, I planned what to do
Despite the feeling that I knew I would rue
I walked to this god, who stood still as I watch
Looked into his eyes, as my hand grabbed his crotch
“how dare you ****** me! I’m a woman of grace!”
“you shall not demean me, no shame I will face!”
And so I turned to walk away
I would not let this man ever sway
To let me lose the virtue I gained
Despite my desire, oh how I have pained
I turned my head to take one more look
So many I’ve shunned, I could write a book
The doubt in my head took hold of me
And doubled my pace, so that I may be free
…..then I went to the 7 eleven to buy batteries
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
Moth, dancing moth,
dance to the light. Dance to the death.
Break those wings to free the flight,
the sea is far and here is no hearth, not here.
Fly, moth, fly
away from the lilted breeze so to breathe easy.
Your heart is in shock; Moth, go back to
from where you come.
Moth, falling moth,
no crevice in sight, dear moth—where has your illusion
gone? Moth don’t waste time, hurry yourself and
cease the end, in through the spaces and far from time.
Wingless moth, pained.
The light shines only on you.
What disturbance (perturbing the soul)
held you back?
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
A little sight, him sauntering over to my side of the bed
pantless and looking eager as a child to see me:
he had her ******* in mind. I know now,
I only feel sympathetic about it, I know it pained him
when he touched mine.
He said her name so few times I just thought of her as the
animal homophone, and if I were anyone else,
I would not have worried when he said
she thought of him on occasion, because morning came
as morning still and he still had a big heart for a liar.
The thing is that our rapport was honesty –
if I laid on him too heavy, he would request I scoot over
if he did not want to sing me a song
in that baritone fluid, I would seek another shoreline.
Submissive, yet, I would ask him what I wanted without
asking if he could simply love being loved,
I could not understand. Only a scruffy teddy bear could.
But we do not talk about it, maybe I mention
a bunny an ex gave me, one I cut the ears off of when
the apocalypse came, but he has not a syllable.
Nobody wants their lovers to exist
with other loves, and sometimes we do not want ourselves
to exist with other loves even more so.
I only feel sympathetic about it, because I first felt I had
a sibling when we connected, became all carnal,
sweet nature handed me a body.
I only just understood that I was not given the right one.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
You've got a white scarf, but it's unreliably so
I could count on it to be white for many years
Until last year, when it didn't quite resemble snow
It changed colors, and brought up many fears
Like will you make it til tomorrow?
and will you still be here?
You used to wear it like it embodied majesty
Like you were a lion and it was your mane
Curling around your neck and screaming of divinity
I know that mane better than I know your name
(buddy)
The leaves will change and your scarf will too
Your head will bump mine, and I'll bump yours too
I'm running from my thoughts and the truth
This might be all for naught and tomorrow you
Will be here still, and I won't have to say goodbye
To your scarf, your mane, our collective life
Maybe your heart will still be kept in mine,
Released only when our heads collide
Your personality is truth
Your personality is you
I try to ask others to be like you but they can't
That plight is wrong and an ineffective chant
Your heart, your personality, your truth
Will be held in my heart regardless
of whether or not tomorrow I see you
And I do see you.
For a while there, you were hiding behind your disease
But now you're able to come out of your shell with ease
And now I can have another collection of moments with you
Your personality
Your truth
And you are truth.
For a year I thought you were gone and that the next
Moment I saw you, you'd be descending into a grave
You would be gone and only accessible through memories
Your truth
Your personality
And you are personality.
It pained me every time I saw you, thinking I wouldn't see
It and how you walked and how you cried for water when
You needed it. I'd trip over you, and trample you, but you
You are truth
You are personality
You're here today, eternally in my heart
You're here tomorrow, and when we are apart
A year down the road, and a plethora more
You'll be in my heart forevermore
The part of me that you bring out will never exist again on this earth
And your white scarf will never be seen by my brown eyes
But I can hold you here
Right here in my heart
And you can pur
And I can contemplate when you'll bump my head again
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
For all of you I have lived my life
By crutch, by hand, through all the strife
It did not matter, for I did not see
The strain, the burden, the pain for me
I held your hand, with love abandon
Through every battle, though none was won
But don’t you see, that’s what He meant
To find our own way, clear message sent
Yet through the pain our eyes made blind
The tears that blur all truth, all kind
Beside you I'll always remain until
The dark of storms to pass, stay still
With patience, love, I wait to pass
And hope you find the love at last
To set you free and find your home
And no longer feel you are alone
Tis not my pain I care at all
Just you, your heart I hear the call
So promise not to turn away
And let the darkness lead you astray
I stand, by you, my friend so true
As you have done when I pained too
Take my hand, so I stand beside
The hardest times, we both have cried
I am your friend I'll always stay
To hold all evils and tears at bay
I wish to hold you and make you see
That pain we learn, is meant to be
How high you'll rise, yes this is true
That life enfolds, and with love for you
So please, I ask, to look deeply within
You ‘ll overcome, in the end you will win
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
Pained like windows,
Widows hang on walls.
Eight-legged nightmares,
Trying not to fall.
Knitting webs,
Made of lies,
Trying to be clever,
Trying to hide.
A tangled mess
Of silken strings
Homes filled with knickknacks
And mismatched things
Always rebuilding
What was new yesterday
Relentless pest,
Find a new place to stay.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
*
The fume
A thick dark fumy cloud
Dormant it lies, but often loud
Precariously overhead, it flowed
The sunshine of the life, it swallowed
It rained, challenged by the mighty peak
In the heart, It pained, to see it weak
The cloud was small but heavy
However dusty and floaty.
The doom and gloom
Embracing in its shadow
In desert, plains and meadow
Eclipsing the days, sunny bright
Dreadful, with the darkening night
With me, always hanging around
When noticed, nearby it's found
Haunting me with a sadness
Flaunting its darkness
A lot in the cloud explored
Then consciously, It was ignored
But dancing at the back of the mind
Past hurts and pains, it put to rewind
The boom and bloom
And then, letting it flow across, I got immersed,
In fine tiny droplets, the cloud
dispersed,
Now each droplet addressed
separately
Was dried in the shiny sun
completely
All of the cloud, dripped to
evaporate
Condensed eventually, as
distillate
My pains, by that elixir,
cured,
Alchemised me
into
24 carat gold
*
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
I live next door,
To a ballerina,
I hear music all day,
And see lights on all night,
It doesn’t bother me,
For we are good friends,
I knew her forever,
Even as a child,
Sometimes I see her,
From my bedroom window,
Dancing like her life depends on it,
Only, it really does,
She moves,
With such grace,
Delicately on her toes,
As if it was easy,
She glances out her window,
Sees me staring,
Flashes a smile,
As if everything was okay,
But I too knew her too well,
To fall for that lie,
I looked at her long and hard,
And now I see why,
Beads of sweat,
Fell down her forehead,
Her legs shook,
As she did a developpe,
Her face was pained,
Strong hint of confusion,
Yet she smiled away,
As if she wasn’t hurting,
She was beautiful,
She could pass as a goddess,
But if you looked closely,
You could see she wasn’t flawless,
Her ever-so-fake smile,
Is what gave her away,
And the shine in her eyes,
Was simply the tears kept inside
Just when I thought,
It was a trick of the light,
She tripped and fell down,
Into a puddle of her own tears,
I didn’t know,
What to do,
Should I climb out my window?
Or leave her in pain?
One thought was dominant,
And it was neither of either,
I screamed just enough,
For her to hear,
She looked up,
And cried once again,
I asked her what was wrong,
Was everything okay?
She said it wasn’t,
As she walked towards her window,
And then did I see her body,
As thin as a straw,
She told me her story,
Everyone was screaming at her,
They said she was pathetic,
Useless in so many ways,
She said she agreed,
They were telling the truth,
She was too fat to be beautiful,
Too fat to dance,
That’s when it hit me,
It explained so much,
She had a disorder,
Anorexia nervosa,
I told her the truth,
While her body shook,
I shook my head and said,
“It’s going to be okay,
My little ballerina”
She smiled, and left.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
My friend Amelia (real name, of course, redacted)
is something of a pained Ophelia.
The play's the thing, the part brilliantly acted;
She stands alone by Hamlet's side,
She sighs and moans and pouts and pines,
and waits for him to be attracted.
But Hamlet I know; He's a friend of mine,
and for her heart, he doesn't pine. He's out to solve his father's ******
Let him go, Ophelia. It's all right. He won't be dissuaded by your ardour;
your love won't keep him long distracted.
Senpai; My Liege; it all rings far more familiar than it aught.
"Notice me!"
"Notice me!"
or then again...
not.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Sunshine!
Sickly yellow
slow-light colored streaks
slithering worse than sweat
down my body.
That golden ball stares down at me
like a haughty goddess,
her duality shallow and hot.
She cares not for the freedoms of humans.
She's a two-faced coin,
purgatory masked by the promise
of freedom from pained brains
and scholarly shackles.
The sun laughs at her own trickery, gargling through melting teeth
as she collects suppressed confessions
from weakened teens.
When her crescent counterpart
offers solace from her torment,
the moonlit darkness
only serves to drown us
and we splutter in our own
self-taught
year-round
lies.
And the sun
rears her tattered, flaming mane
at daybreak,
belly-laughing at idle minds now unrefined,
gleefully adding her own scorch
to already inflamed brains.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
I remember the restaurant,
The one Grandpa
Had brought us to –
Window panes in patriotism
And pancakes atop, “America,”
The world revolved,
“America,”
And how we’d made it
“Home” –
So came the syrup, destiny
And fervor caked powder plate.
He knew of my toil, ills, and tolls
Pandered atop horizons
Hindered Mao and red
As we sat near dawn over coffee
And something south of
Conspiracy – opposite my dream
And collusion to **** said
Destiny,
But it was still, “his
America,” not mine and he’d
Sleep when I wouldn’t.
So it pained me, resonant a twitch
Within this small inch of
Remnant family, to tell him,
“We’re going back,
We’re leaving tomorrow,”
And, “I don’t know when I’ll be
Home,” gramps,
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be home,”
And he’d say prior ever’d silent –
“Good luck sleeping on that one,
Son,” I just know he would.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
A boy with no parents bought up hated and alone,
wanted attention and was always on his own.
a Beast inside made the villagers afraid,
for this reason.. they all displayed,
an attitude of hate,
which they made bait.
lonely and behind,
was also kind.
Year's went passed,
time really went fast,
a team of 3,
he was happy.
He vowed one day,
he'd be the village hokage.
He Trained and trained,
felt drained and pained.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
His hair is curled at the back of his ball cap
Though he tries to hide his eyes
I can still see the smile contained within them
His eyes are a piercing green
That see right through me
His eyelashes are long and thick
Though I can still see those beautifully pained eyes
He is a walking, aching dream
Just a hand away
Oh, curly haired boy
When will you be mine?
I just want to get my hands tangled up in that hair
To feel the little escaping curls
Trying to come out from under his ball cap
I want to lose myself in those emerald eyes
Worth more than diamonds to me
I want to know every secret that lies behind his heart
I want to know his future
And maybe if I am lucky to be a part of it
Oh, curly haired boy
You will only ever exist in a poem
But in every single poem you are mine
You are just a kiss away
An arm away
A curl away
Oh, curly haired boy.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
This joy
This madness
This rain;
Absolute calm
Meeting you
Then departing
You emerge, out of the blues;
Absolute calm
Here goes
My soul
As I've found you again;
Absolute calm
I was faithful
Unfaithful you fell
Played game too well;
Pained, yet in absolute calm
..................................................
*Ye suroor
Ye junoon
Ye barish
Kitna sukoon...
Tera milna
Phir bichadna
Istifak se milna
Kitna sukoon...
Loh gaya
Mera saya
Tujhe paya
Kitna sukoon...
Wafa tumse
Bewafai humse
Khel khela
Dard-e-sukoon...*
©sim
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 4:07 AM UTC
The pick
All the stress that an orange has caused is painful.
It is painful for the tree from which it came.
Snatched away with promises of sweetness.
A tree mostly green, engulfing
Small speckles of that deceptive orange.
It was such a bright colour – high hopes!
Handpicked by a man only looking for the best,
Choosing poorly not for the first time.
The green leaves frantically try to reclaim what’s theirs.
Branch after branch reaching out, trying to uproot him.
Close, so close. But they are a sea apart,
At least an apple has a core, a heart.
The peel
Now it is pilfered, the painful process begins,
Never quite ending: disappointment beckons.
To try and taste these orange juices
You soldiers must bear the burden.
Each soldier, a finger digging themselves
Into the tough stressful shell.
Fingernails stained with orange blood,
Eyes blinded by the same tangy juices.
It never slips off in one go
Like a roomy balaclava,
But crumbles like the remnants of a bombing.
Brick by brick, orange by orange it crumbles.
Now it is finally undone
But neither tree nor man has won.
The preparation
The crust collapsed, but now
It is time to untangle the web the mantle holds.
First, a division – the separation of brothers
Who served side by side at birth.
Dissected by these soldiers
Acting as a bomb squad,
Searching for those hidden pips.
Found, but not without casualties –
Sticky fingers with no taps in sight.
Once removed the web is untangled.
Tired, he hopes that the stress will swiftly end
Unaware that the sweetness was just pretend.
The pain
Finally the moment has arrived
And illogical ceremonies commence.
I fear the celebration is far too soon,
For as white touches orange and tries
So desperately to unite,
The tartly taste slays the poor man’s buds:
Igniting like petrol on his burning tongue.
He wishes he could return that orange
To the green tree to which it belongs,
To return a bullet-sprayed windscreen is not an option.
The orange, once bitten, enjoys its trance
Latching on to those pained tingling taste buds.
His orange, a disaster to undress:
Bad taste – a foolish price for such a mess.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC