"paining" poems
there is a monster beneath
the lofty, billowing sheets of my bed
beneath the mattress
the box spring
the carefully crafted wooden frame.
[he lives in the shadows,
in the obscurity there.]
i should feel sheltered...safe,
underneath these sheets,
[like my mother’s arms
tucking me in tight,
don’t let the bed bugs bite.]
but when my arm dangles off my bed,
when i commit that fatal mistake,
i feel a draw to the ground
more forceful than the force of gravity
seizing my hand
paining to pull me under.
and i know it is the monster.
i feel his yearning
for the blood and guts of a child...
his desire to rip me apart
like a lion does his prey.
i take back control of my hand,
wrap my arms around myself,
feigning safety.
for as we all know
that monster could very well
clamber, creep out
climb onto my bed
and swallow me whole.
i don’t know why he hasn’t yet --
perhaps he likes the challenge
of waiting for me
to be susceptible enough to
forget myself
and leave my arm suspended
for more than
just a moment.
i am curled up into a fetal position
paralyzed by my fear.
the anxiety invades my joints
so that i cannot move anymore.
i fall into a fitful sleep
and wake up to sunshine radiating
through my window,
casting the intricate patterns of
my curtains on the rug.
during the day,
the monster cannot survive.
but when nighttime falls
the darkness returns,
my trepidation returns
and the monster is alive.
well, again.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
My head is spinning
My vision is blurring
My neck is paining
My whole body is aching
My fingers are numbing
My arteries are clogging
My fate... I am hating
My life is shattering
My suffering is neverending...
Am I dying?
My kidney is teasing...
My blood is aggressively pumping
My glucose is cynically laughing
My heart is still beating...
Death... am I cheating?
Tick.. Tock... Tick... Tock...
Am Still breathing...
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
Now you're in love, or so you think.
On the brink of infatuation, an obsession,
clinging on to whatever you can get.
But don't fret! It'll only end in regret.
These "feelings" are formed from your imagination,
An affectation of what you think you know.
But in the end you'll show, what you soon will begin to
deplore.
Paining yourself, is it worth it?
You'll be burnt out, striving for mirth,
but only ending in hurt.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Life is unavoidably ecstatic,
at every scale, degree, level, dimension,
an oscillation,
season to season
day to night to day to night
cycle by cycle
wax by wane
feeling
by feeling
to feeling
always moving
both ways
all ways
always
crest, trough,
cresting-
falling,
lifting-crashing
riding, riding out
and in
and through
and by
and by,
bursting..
I could explode,
I might explode,
I did explode,
I do explode
though I'm contained,
boundary by boundary,
transcending,
including,
moving
always moving
both ways
all ways
always
rainbows weaving spectral waving,
rivers raging, bodies growing,
organismic, oceanic, orgiastic
in-ing, out-ing,
coming-going,
holding, letting go,
flowing, flowing, flows
surrendered, building,
pursing, pleasing,
pangs, paining,
ripping, breaking,
sorrows to joys to shade to shine,
as chasms to substantiation,
as abyssal to full,
as burn to burning,
to smoke etheric,
to ashes, to ground,
all passions
as passions
passion
pumping, filling, releasing
on-ing, off-ing,
alive-dying-birthing-living,
living as moving
always moving,
transforming
breath by breath
by breathing, being
this to that,
a changeling,
changing
always moving
always moving
both ways
all ways
always
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
I look for compatriots
in this callous and cruel
world.
I seek allies who will help
me overcome
the horrors that were done
to everyone.
I long for
the warm storm
to wash away
the wicked muck
of too much
hateful stuff,
deeply paining
dark rhetoric
that wealthy men
generate,
to create
fear and hate.
I wait
subdued
by the desire
to inspire
in contrast
with a need
to find peace
from a
spiteful past,
but even among peers
I am alone.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
i.
Alow downward Reyna, humanity hunger's and kill's,
Red liquid they do spill, despoiling, toiling, taking
Lucifer's fill;
ii.
We canst only watcheth queen, as their working's and dream's,
Get untied by the string's, of the fine unseen line, of the principalities and power's.
iii.
Henceforth the hour's, shalt be as fading flower's, they shalt seeith their government's and darkened power's; falleth as the star's, men who knoweth none boundaries, God shalt rattle the mountain's and deep, as a harlot to her patron. Though the patron's sleep.
iv.
We shalt endureth this paining moment amour', the cosmic chronograph is opening door's; erelong love, erelong amour', we shalt sit at a feasting table, wherein the beau monde that hast Satan's barcoded label, shalt not perch. The flame shalt quench it's thirst, as recreation below us takes it's course. For ourn creator spoke this Jane, in the beginning. The world's lost it's way, it needeth cleansing from the sinning. As we shalt be restored by reconnecting on higher planes. To be reborn, in the spirit again.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
One Winter's day the pain will fade
and letting go of you won't be so hard
so I spend most of my time paining over scars
and bleeding hearts
and trying to live for the art.
I drown in the sight of you
there's no way to look at you
different shades of blue covers the inside of me
with cold smoke particles glued – (to me)
producing what seems to be an endless sea of clear dew.
As the snow falls to the ground
white nothingness fill my eyes
and all the window have been opened, and everything falls upside down.
The dying little flowers sprouting out of the snow has been placed in a place I use to call the sky
It's not too warm or too cold I need close my mind even if it’s for a little while.
You You You You running through my empty head
No words or songs or judgements or thoughts just -You
I need to tip a whole tin of paint over me
Because me and you are through.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, mind block not really posting a lot these days;-|
keeping now foot on gas
paining away drowns on piles
stashing upon jokes on types
watching with characters on hope
leaving before fall on love
starring because stars on align
dancing to listen on piano notes
writing for heart on no rhyme
------ravenfeels
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 11:06 AM UTC
Some go out in a blaze of glory, some with a crazy, sad story.
I am not sure which I have chosen but it may get very gory.
I don’t care any longer about the skies I see
Or the dreams I’ve had that cease to be.
I am tired, sore and I hurt in mind and in the fairy soul
I know at this late stage I never will be whole.
I do not want to urge it on but simply to not worry
I want those who give a **** to know there was no hurry.
Music sounds dull, words are boring, what’s left to say
all that’s left is for a fool like me to pick a day.
No more pills, no checking, no pecking no heeding
no worrying, no trying and paining when you stop succeeding.
There are no magic cures for us, just pretenders selling dreams
and the rest get rich selling us on their schemes.
I will go when I go, doing just what I choose to do
Then the task of being someone special will suddenly be through.
Copyright/1/2014
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
How Many Faces Do People Want To Wear,
How Many Lies Have You Told When You Swear,
How Many People Would Stand Up & Care,
When Dishonesty Is Life Because Society Isn't Fair.
Caught In A Game Where The Rules Keep On Changing,
They Take Up To Strike But Their Moves They're Feigning,
These People Aren't Human But It's Our Souls They're Staining,
These People Aren't People Its People They're Paining.
I Call These Animals Ants 'Cause These People Lack A Soul,
They See Us As Worse While We Make The System Whole,
How Many Must Suffer Before They Reach Their Goal,
Austerity's Dust On Our People Like Coal.
Roll Out With Cuts While You Hoard Away Gold,
The Rich Will Get Richer As It's Always Told,
A Waning Grip On Patience Is What We All Hold,
How Brazen These Monster Our Protests Are Bold.
But Nobody Listens 'Till Blood Covers Streets,
& At That Point We're Faced With Defeat,
No One Will Care Until We Make A Stand,
Strength Is In Numbers We Have The Upper Hand.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
Oh save me my angel,
From this mad insanity.
Oh save me my angel,
I don't like him the way he does me.
Everyone pressures us together and he doesn't mind,
I can't let my friends down it would not be kind.
I do not love him the way he does me,
I love him like a brother,
Not a lover,
As he does me.
Every time I try to secretly turn him down,
He just comes back around,
Paining me at the sight of him.
Oh my angel save me,
From the pain in his eyes that I see.
Oh my angel save me,
Hurting him makes me unable to breathe.
My angel,
My angel,
Wipe the tears that I shed.
My angel,
My angel,
**** his love that's been bred.
My angel,
Please save me,
From this torturous misery.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
If ever you hurt.
If ever you need to cry.
Let me comfort you.
Listen to what's paining you?
And wipe those tears from your eyes.
If grief should ever come to you.
And you need someone to turn too.
Or just a shoulder to lean upon.
Let me comfort you.
Yes, this I'm willing to do.
Solely out of my love for you.
There are times in our lives.
When words of comfort is needed.
Then sometimes words aren't needed at all.
Still let me comfort you.
Through anything of sadness affecting you.
I'm here.
I'm here.
Yes, i'm here for you.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
The wind blowing gently, the rose Quartz pink flowers seemed to be floating around me. The bright green grass seemed to be lit up as the sun shown down on the earth looking more like a paining. I stared in complete awe took me over. I was having trouble believing such a place existed. My thoughts were swirling making myself believe I wasn't merely in a dream. I stood there looking around me. There were no gates or walls. No borders to keep me away. It was open and free. Walking over to one of the trees I placed my hand on it gently. It's bark was soft to the touch. It's leaves feeling like velvet as I ran my hand over one of its branches. I sat down leaning against its trunk as I watched the day go by. Like a blanket, the flowers loomed over everything in sight. I knew where I wanted to be. Where I wanted to stay. Right here in this moment. Forever...
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
I looked on as an elderly man was painting an old farm house in oils, surrounded by trees dressed in their autumn finery. The house was shown as an aged and faded white surrounded by a low picket fence that had fallen into disrepair and long since been forgotten. The old dilapidated barn in the distance was expressed in varying shades of grey and peeling red paint. I was enraptured by the image I was seeing unfold before my eyes. It appeared to be such a simple piece, but it grew in complexity the longer I viewed it. Its underlying tones were of sadness and loneliness, time, and things forgotten. I balked at that, finding my initial assessment woefully inaccurate, this was not a lonely place, a forgotten place; this was a place that had seen life and heard stories! I knew the man had not yet finished with his painting and would not be so for some time. He was quite meticulous, as if he was paining the memories of his life. Every stroke of the brush had its designated place, its own meaning, and the way his hands grabbed absently at the different brushes seemed as if they had been pre-selected before he ever began. As his story was being narrated in layers of paint and hue, I found myself thinking about what life might have been like in that place he was creating. Who might have lived there? The colors in the painting boasted an autumn season, and though they were warm to the eye the season would have been cold, the growing…slow. No, it wouldn’t have been planting season, it seemed more likely that it would have been hunting season. I imagined game animals in the surrounding hills and a man in a flannel jacket walking silently through those amber colored woods, with rifle in hand and beagles in tow. The frost of his breath echoing the smoke that whispered from the chimney of the house. It would have been warm inside, and maybe children played by the hearth in the day’s early hours before they went reluctantly about their chores under the watchful gaze of a firm, yet loving mother. My thoughts darted to and fro about this painting in the most ridiculous of fashions, seeing people I would never meet, living events that never happened. But I was held to it long enough to allow my imagination to escape, and for a while, frolic freely with the idea of something beautifully simple. I left the elderly man to his work as I carried on about my day, thinking to myself all the while that if a picture is worth a thousand words, a painting is an unread novel.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:43 AM UTC
Mr. Gibson penetrates my poem, my paining senses,
"When raw grief turns into aching music" by witch,
he notates my inundation (1), a summary succinct,
essencing my poem to its bare ***** cri de cœur,
it's comforting to be gotten, grasped, felt & taken,
for ten out of nine, times, when I compose there
is music aching in my muscles and in my perused
words, begging to be read in a thorough, careful way,
and he honors them thusly, and I am deeply touched,
at our conjuring conjunction of connection, a phrase
worthy of a poem in and of itself, but
let someone else,
perhaps him, perhaps you, write it, I am contented:
*to be heard,
to be believed,
to be by, relieved,
to being understood
to be felt, given and +
taken, and given a great
musical measure of comforting…
in summary too,
here is where*,
I thank you.
nml
9/12/25
5:15am
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:14 AM UTC
you will
certainly be
the ultimate,
paining death
of me.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Today my heart
well it is saddened
it sits low
in the Stillness now
my precious voice
I so long to find her
taken weary
by a wanton Thief
why...
I wish
for to ask you
your
sweet sound
that you own too
inspired chords
oh I wish to hear you
bringing tears
in a thorny crown
as you steal
my aching heartbeat
in longing pangs
of envy wild
jealous lust
is steering spirits
if a willing voice
souls lost in time
do not take
that Midnight train ride
consumed by feined
affections lost
sing my heart
releasing chest pain
forming blood
in an endless tide
as I lay bleeding
morning offers
a chance for peace
in moonsoaked clouds
the trees
I can hear them
softly whisper
gently near
wounded wings
were just repaired
I pray for rain
and to show us how to
be better as
we drain this ink
telluric beds
already laid in
the laying long
let go of sin
like the voice
that I
can't hear now
it's not you
that I'm afraid
it is the sound
of endless Silence
Paining ears
in a deafening pound
I hear
it calling
from
a battle
waging
lost
a tragic end
voices silenced
war of ages
left to die
a hefty cost.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
God is kind to me
My heart is not bleeding.
My nose is but flowing
And my naywe paining.
But WHO enforces
Unbalancing tricks . . . ?
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
~~~
dislocation/punk'd
hey baby,
put one forward,
faking baby steps.
life is hard in different ways,
for so many of us, the days say,
each year of us, walks a unique maze,
hands on the wall, unavoidable tripping on
speed bumps that make one crazed
and that you even see
coming
but inevitable is the red,
swelling, bruises, cutting,
the side effects of what gets said,
the falling-downs of words that are
dislocating
things get said, and you get paid
in eerie and weary,
and the loss of balance,
as if you are just the warm water,
water that slips over the side,
not the body inside,
and when you slip up,
that wet, warm beat-up,
That empty feeling of being is
displacing
you know, well advanced,
that parts of you,
moving around inside,
sources of internal dizziness,
the curve ***** thrown in slow mo
that so mesmerize you
into watching but not swinging,
accepting that the arc,
provides burns skinning,
and you go down 'n out
striking
what ya gonna do?
dust off and upstanding accept,
that some pitches are just **** hard on us,
we the swingers, often miss the ball,
wide of the mark,
sometimes we just stand, mouth agape,
watching the ball coming right at us,
even foreseeing the incoming
paining
what hurts,
is not those rosy red ridge reminders,
the after party of being hit,
but that when getting punk'd,
chewed up, spit out,
you get used to it, and to survive,
to keep your wits,
you spend time convincing yourself,
that you don't even care,
but you find your thinking is all about
rhyming
so when poetry get complicated,
ya get back to where ya
once before where,
keeping it simple,
roses red, violets blue,
what ya gonna do,
but your sense of smell
shot to hell,
what the hell,
thinking just another wet plunking
thinking no big dealing
this one mo' punking,
there will be more
but wonder why
you can no longer make your
simple, confused words to be reduced
by right
rhyming
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
this title has begrudgingly waited for some loving kindness, fulfillment-needy, since October of Two Thousand and Seventeen
which is not quite as long as the decades I have been waiting to
accumulate the words to provide us both, an inspired solution
my days are numbered
in decades, decals, varying lengths of hair,
belts with notches that ain’t reachable,
suits various, both too big and too small to fit,
the who who used to own them,
begrudgingly, writes this
city born and bred, with the pale skin needed to prove my urbanity, each day came unto me begrudgingly,
even, especially, the good ones
when I was ten and rode my bike from freedom to mystery,
and back again in a city that was ok, if you stayed out of its way
and knew the city’s vocabulary and its erogenous zones
when nothing come easy, when even the easy, when it comes, comes begrudgingly
when you think of love, and the next immediate thought is:
how great the cost - recalling too well,
the pain of childbirth and child rearing
and the staining, paining fluid is in perm-attendence,
that doesn’t ever fully departs and
is not never entirely stain-stick-removable,
and the children come ‘n go according to their schedule,
someone else’s vast eternal plan
life in the same apartment
where my parents died,
listening to the stories of joined lives,
listen to the sisters telling them
over and over to a stream of visitors
earned from and of a 98 year life,
given up willing but, begrudgingly as well.
the story-telling skill because of them,
my mist-matched parents who did ok
and their very best,
gifted us hyperbole innate genetic
and all of us now registered
tall tale tellers;
some write for a living,
some live to write,
some write to make themselves clearer,
after honestly confronting their subway reflection
words acquired bot ‘n sold,
they too are stains unerasable,
very always handy,
the one thing we shared, word skill,
was never at loss, words never held a grudge
no matter how long they waited to serve
this fact, begrudgingly confess;
all my-word skill was freely inherited...
and I hope it satisfied the title
and you, those that waited patiently but,
begrudgingly
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
And In your arms is where I want to be
But I can see you are lost in her sea
Where my ship can never safely set sail
So my heart begins to silently wail
These words that you present in a promise
Haunt my mind steadily with this malice
That tore the limbs of this yearning spirit
Realizing the loss of each minute
We wasted hypothesizing that night
Of a time where we could be with no fight
But she is yours forever in this time
Where I am the revenge of her cold crime
With this tears shed into my own ocean
Where I will bleed out this paining poison
And find myself with a freshly white mind
A canvas where you will not be found
So you two will live in your lasting love
Without my breath and the pestering dove
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 10:20 PM UTC
what's the matter lady
moon is always waning
smile fragrant paining
grind those whitewashed tombstones
into a fine dust and blow it my eye
so i might cry
over you
and the distance
and have it be half hearted
but still textbook lacrimosa
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
ɨ.
Sɛaʀċɦɛtɦ ʍɨռɛ ɨռtɛʀɨօʀ O' ʍɨɢɦtʏ ċʀɛatօʀ
Mɨռɛ ʍaʟaɖʏ ċօʍɛtɦ օռ stʀօռɢ;
Wɦɛռ tɦɛ sʊռsɛt ɦast ċօʍɛtɦ aռɖ ɢօռɛ
Mɨռɛ ʊռċtɨօռ ɨs ռօt ċʟօsɛ, tɨs I ռɛɛɖɛtɦ ɦɛʀ tɦɛ ʍօst.
ɨɨ.
Mɨռɛ ҡɨɖռɛʏ's aʀt racked աɨtɦ քaɨռ
Tɦɛ ʀɛɖ ʄʀօʍ tɦɨs tɦʀօat քօʊʀs օʋɛʀ aɢaɨռ;
I ռɛɛɖɛtɦ ʍɨռɛ ʟօʋɛʀ, ʍɨռɛ զʊɛɛռ,
Mɨռɛ օռʟʏ, ʍɨռɛ ɦօքɛ, ʍɨռɛ աatċɦɛʀ aռɖ ɖʀɛaʍ.
ɨɨɨ.
O' ʟօʀɖ, ʍaռ ɦatɦ ɮɛɛռ tօ ɮʊsʏ աɨtɦ ʍatɛʀɨaʟ ʟɨʋɨռɢ
Pʟɛasɛ ҡɛɛքɛtɦ ʍɛ ɮʀɛatɦɨռɢ aռɖ aʟɨʋɛ, tօ ɦɛʀ ʍɨռɛ sօʊʟ I'ʍ ɢɨʋɨռɢ; sɦɛ I ɢɨʋɛtɦ ʍɨռɛ ɮօռɛs, ʋɛɨռ's, aռɖ tɦaռҡsɢɨʋɨռɢ.
Tօ ɦɛʀ I աaɨtɛtɦ ʊքօռ O' aʀċɦɨtɛċt, ʍɨռɛ աaɨtɨռɢ ɨs քaɨռɨռɢ.
ɨʋ.
Caռst I sɛɛɨtɦ ɦɛʀ sօօռ ʄatɦɛʀ, I ɢɨʋɛtɦ tɦɛɛ aʟʟ I ɦast
Mɨռɛ ɖʀօք's օʄ ɮʟօօɖ, ɨռsɨɖɛ tɦʏ ɦօʟʏ ċʊք, ʝʊst tօ sɛɛɨtɦ ʍɨռɛ ***
I'ʍ aռɢʊɨsɦɛɖ, ʄaʍɨshed, ռօt ɦɛaʀɨռɢ ʍɨռɛ ċɦɛʀʊɮ's ɢօɖɖɛss ʋօɨċɛ
I ɢɨʋɛtɦ ʍɛ, tօ sɛɛɨth ʍɨռɛ զʊɛɛռ, ɛʋɛռ ɮʏ ʍɨռɛ ɖɛatɦ, I'ʟʟ ҡɨss ɦɛʀ ʍօɨst.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
The fortunate I,
The send-sighted me,
What might have I done
To deserve this to see?
That inchworm in paining,
Though pretty she was,
Has set to cocooning,
In endless becomes.
Such books, she has heavy,
Her heart so it spins,
That silken word cover,
With lux-journal skeins.
Such passion in weaving,
She'll fuel open minds,
And full will this artist,
Soon her medium find.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 10:42 PM UTC
I don't know what to say 'bout her....
Even a crow would be sick..
Little do you know 'bout her features
Am sure you would act like this!
She walks out of a party show
Like a total cracked geek
Wears dress like a halloween show
And wears empty lipstick!
Oh heck she has white skin
Totally pale like a vamp
But then it holds like a surgery
Oh! she's such a *****
And she has huge fangs....
Which are sooo **** real!
BUt then people will have more than second thoughts
WHEEEUH! push away that smell!
She has blood red lips
But they are totally gross!
With no positive blood,onion flavored
And on lips...turmeric sauce!
And when she attacks a fellow guy...
She makes sure the guy is cute
And then she stabs a knife instead of her teeth
Like playing a guitar instead of flute...
Man! she thinks she's sexxy
But she has ****** mistaken
And then she walks with her heavy body
The guys think that the world is shaki'n!
I can say no more....
Cuz my neck's paining
Oh shit..now i get it!
The woman was not at all lying!
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC