"paragraphed" poems
You cut a dashing figure
between em and en and
oh, by the way
Your abbreviated smile
has me wondering what
it stands for
as I place my finger on
your ellipsis … you lead me on,
there is no doubt
I feel left out
But as we track and kern
our forms, ascending,
make ligatures to avoid
an overlap of strokes
a diphthong doth emerge
o’er our line o’ type
and what was once
paragraphed into separateness,
our thoughts juxtaposed
begins to merge
(bind in parentheses)
you’n’me make syncope
and, once the story forms,
the digraphs make shapes
with our mouths.
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 4:53 PM UTC
I am paragraphed.
Downed on dead nostalgia.
Daggers keep sway my song
Of buzzing doves and lions.
Fleets of sunken words
Tread on silent leaves.
Echoed sighs of empty pens
And woes of crumpled sheets.
Unblossom my emotions.
Let the infinite unbleed.
Words have failed me;
Paragraphed, I remain.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
you gotta hold onto summer nights,
luscious trees glistening in bright moonlight,
paints a picture like,
things wont ever get better,
letters typed, can't ever describe
just how live
you feel, with a breath of that air,
and how quickly that free breath fades...
as time invades, once again,
warm embraces end,
soon after they begin,
temporary at best, temporary at worst,
i can't be the first to know this!
i notice, that the summer gets shorter each year,
and the fear that i won't live up to,
set expectations,
leads to hesitation, to start taking life
serious, but fear it just...
seems to paralyze, as i realize,
that this is all that there is,
and i can't describe what i want to do
with myself, i mean... i don't want to be stuck
on a shelf, i just... can't be looked over,
this must be the reason why we cant stay sober,
in life, death is always over our shoulders,
just waiting to take summer nights,
and luscious trees glistening in moonlight,
try as i might, they fade quicker
each year, but i refuse to be a short
paragraphed obituary. and i refuse to be
one of those forgotten many.
i refuse to let all that i have in this head
go to waste without changing the lives
of those misled.
i refuse to let summer nights just go to waste
on pointless booze-drinking, what was i thinking?
i refuse to let mind-numbing 9 to fives
allow me to forget the fact that i am alive,
and i can change the world,
and that i can make my obituary
front. page. news.
i refuse.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 8:43 AM UTC
-Flip thru my pages...-
-
{Reach into my bones}
-
Feel my unborn world of humanity
The golden pansophy
Holding together the marrow
Nerves sending signals to a brain
That constantly feed on meaty morals
Rainbow veins pulsing gifted murals
Bounded in a book made out of human skin
Teardrops glued to each page
Tells a story of manic glories
Paragraphed with an insane biography
-
{Touch my soul}
-
Feel your fingertips
Vibrate
From the sorrow within
The urgency
The depression
The hidden plea
-
{Look into my mermaid eyes}
-
Drown in my dreams
Which the fairytale people
Help me create
Those goals I want to complete
But were forgotten
Like buried photographs
In a dusty attic
-
{Now flip thru my hearts folio}
-
Flip
Until you’ve reached the end
Have you guessed it?
Have you?
That I am
The beginning and the end
A forbidden book
Made out of human skin
-
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
Shedding paragraphed tears from the ears
Heard through the speakers makes ya weaker
See I be the realist of the dons last of the Mohicans
Yeah and still searching for a record deal?
Naw I'll stick to the street appeal code of the real
Nine goes to the grill of an adversary who thrills
In this game it's **** or be killed unplanned wills
Its hard to breath when ya fish gills got blood spills
My aim is to a trill ain't having no
bills
My tracks lay massacre worse than the
Beginning of
America expeditions foes still
wishin'
As I'm dishin' out the hardest rhymes crime
Made easily once the microphone receives me
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
poet versus writer dialogue:
we play with words...
we don't necessarily use them,
what are you on about?
the word is there, sure,
but it's not paragraphed
nor catch phrased,
and you end up with it as both
paragraphed in journalism
and catch phrased in terms of economics,
e.g.: veneer.
for the cries of the slender ghouls thinned
further into nothing by designers,
or skid marks of vomiting
by models replaced by coat-hangers
(do a german for me,
conjugate the two words for a complex
to dysfunction dyslexia of the english tongue:
coathangers): moving in roulette fashion
so we can spare the girls anorexia:
no cat would hamburger that true for
a tonne of cheese.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
I’ve seen too many empty words
On papers covered with text
Like rows of parallel lines and
I’m painfully waiting for them to converge;
Feeling like a hopeless dreamer in a reality
Where intelligence is measured by the
Amount of white space you can cover
With a brush, but no paint.
And I wonder how you can speak with all your might
And still not be heard,
Am I simply not choosing the right words?
Maybe this rhyme wasn’t timed
Just right
For your head to ignite
With all the fury that spins inside of me
Like tornados of dirt in an open space
Where there is so much potential
But no one is there to observe,
How I can sometimes form images
Out of reckless stanzas of
Sounds that bounce just right
In the pits of my mind.
But these metaphors and similes
Don’t seem to put smiles on the faces
Of academics sitting up high,
On chairs of published journals
And research that stomps on your behind,
Until you realise you can never measure up
To their size.
But, I still twirl around in circles sometimes,
Collecting debris of those
Who have been misheard and
Misinterpreted as
Deadly villains in stereotypical stories,
Where their side of the story
Is simplified into scenes of disturbance.
I dance around manipulation
Ushering words I’ve gathered along the way
Until it amounts to a mangled creation
One that would make Frankenstein
Smile in admiration;
Until the story is turned upside down
And then all the way around.
I’ve seen too many bland sentences
In essays that we’re told to embrace,
When these chunks of information cannot hold themselves up
Without a thick spine of paragraphed meaning
And meticulously referenced supporting points-
Of relevance.
And you always sit there wondering
What the hell counts as relevant?
When there are thousands of combinations
Making up thousands of words that have yet
To grace our impatience.
I am still waiting,
Knees bouncing and hands drumming
Trying to piece together symphonies
In silent lectures about everything
And sometimes I think it might amount to nothing;
If I can’t make it interesting,
Interesting enough for me to want to weave it into
My natural disaster of a technique,
And call it a piece of myself;
A work of poetry.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
Author’s Note: Welcome to world of dreams turning into reality.
1. I always thought of becoming one of the clouds; how they’ll form with the other clouds different shapes and sizes. I always imagined how they’ll shade us from all the that we should’ve been feeling; how they’ll weep for the cooling sensation that we would feel. I always thought that every tear from my hard work will cool off my mind. I always dreamt of becoming a cloud; going through a cycle on and on. It seems so mysteriously wonderful. But as I seek them in the sky, it seems like, one isn’t there. Today, she’s here.
2. The sun always seemed like this hot blazing ball of gas and fire. I wish I was the sun; the center of the solar system. I wish I could always light up the world; support the moon to even brighten up the other side. But I guess I don’t need to be the sun; I found the sun. I found out that it lighted up my whole world. I found out that she is right here— beside me — always. I should’ve been burning right now but as I unravel more, the more I endure the burning sensation.
3. I always wondered what would I do if I was the wind. I wondered if I could cool off the whole atmosphere. I wonder how it feels to be mixed with different kinds of gases in the air. I wonder how it feels to be drifted apart by your own force. I want to be this need of humanity — of living species. I want to be the wind, nothing more, nothing less.
4. I always dreamt of becoming you. I want to feel how living life was in another persons perspective; how could I survive a day full of excitement and paranoia. I always wanted to feel how I’ll be acting as the sun to somebody’s life; how I’ll be the person lighting up lives. I always wondered if you were me, and if I were you. Will the wind change its direction? Will the clouds ever reverse its cycle? Will the sun set at an opposite direction? If we ever change our role in life, would we ever meet — even in our wildest dreams? I guess fate has to decide what our next step is… only fate.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC