"passionless" poems
*Transient happiness
Drought in our heart
Emotionless
Passionless
Love’s an oasis
We are
Weary travelers
Unaware of
The ramifications
Of unloved Earth
Nature’s revolt
Will encage us
Within our faults
Overzealous we are
Perilous future
Awaits us*
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
Marooned
Vapid beauty of this room
Frothing carpet, ocean blue
One wall me, the other you
What lies between is residue
Scribed on soggy, shipwrecked parchment
Questions asked, time forgotten
Who are we?
What do we know?
Into these questions Summer flows
And thrashes at your Autumn’s brinks
Yearlong they torment my brain
Infringing on every season
If not for the manic scheme
To love and having loved be loved
This correspondence to a distant land
With stars, more numerous and brightly lit
Than my burgeoning highway exit
Would by no means have left my hand
But if, against all odds, it will prevail
Extolling truth’s folly, my sorrowful tale
Quells with reason my groundless pride
At having docked on your passionless harbor
Unloading platonic cargo during our youth’s ebbing tide
Must not create union of body or mind
You swallow my horizon, like the sun twilight
Though, one need not chase that orange orb for tomorrow
In this night without fortitude, lewd humor consumes me
Singing with the mouth on my head and your voice inside
I plunge into darkness
Skimming its silky surface
Before zipping it behind me
Shall I drown, as I have lived?
In vain, my dreams your subjects
Taken for ransom in your heart’s Tripoli
Not surmising recompense, I forfeit this
A note belying resonance
Of my heart’s last echoed throe
One desperate effort, giving up
Feed every vestige to the void
Wading, torso encumbered
Each sullen relic of your memory
Falls to the deep’s frigid ebony
Then, only too late am I cognizant
That my own breath is tribute yet spent
Therefore if I were to float or swim
I’d give you every ounce of who I am
Convince you to relinquish me
From your tepid, spurning sea
Then lying beneath moist underbrush
Slowly, breathe no more
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
Blackened petals, softly fall
within the crystal glass case
that forms my chest wall
deathly petals rest, at its base
The wilted rose of my soul
passionless, dark as night
droops, into my empty hole
a beauty forever lost from sight
Lifeless petals, slowly enclose
this symbol of love held inside
my lonely weeping rose
tied within my soul, has died
Until a true love is felt
silken petals, are unable to spread
the fragrance of beauty never smelt
my black rose never to bloom, a vivid red.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
With You all I felt was
Fire
A burning passion tinted with
Ecstasy and
Desire
A closeness bound by
Scars and shared
Secrets
But
With You all I felt was
Protected
Police tape signed with
Chivalry and
Endearment
A closeness bound by
Texts and tender
Friendships
And now
All I feel is torn
between
aching desire
and passionless safety
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
I tell you hopeless grief is passionless,
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death—
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet;
If it could weep, it could arise and go.
2.7k
He creeps near to the foot of my bed
With that smirk
Oh he's come to cocoon me away to his army
Of dented men
With cropped souls
He asked
But never said please
To come with him
Where it's warm
I shook my head
He persuaded me
But never said please
To come with him
Where gems trickle down your face
I said no
He insisted
But never said please
To come with him
Where his home was
I refused
He forced me
But never said please
To come with him
When a comforting light pierced through my eyes
I couldn't see what it was
For it was far too beautiful
It sheered the man away
It was so modest
So against the beauty of living
Of looking, of tasting
It was a stoic;
Passionless
It was like the water
So against the grains of sand
Of dirt, of ink
It was a stoic;
Calm
It was so indifferent
So against the pull of pleasure
Of sin, of feeling
It was a stoic;
Strong
It was like god
It was god
For nothing
Would come close
To freeing the devil off the foot of my bed.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
the azalea grew there
twenty years,
its grey body now
but scratchy bones,
browned blossoms
to ponder
until someone with courage
pronounces it over
cuts barren spines down,
and mulches the ground
with faded smiles
aged between pages
found saved in a shoebox
string-tied tight in darkness
will we still want spring
when we remember
our missing fuchsia
or discover
a new color to admire,
forget it ever was,
as we’ve manged
to forget laughter
in passionless winter
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 5:29 PM UTC
With my windows tenderly open,
the moonlight, a pale marble phantom I admire
The dark light rests beside me,
unveiling a vivid urban gleam
A jet black silhouette transpires
He whispers in the dark
Porcelain lies, radiant yet feeble.
His words achingly deceive
the lights that disdain me;
belittling my affectionate delusion
Pitch dark silence, I weep as I grieve
My tears filling in everlasting secrecy of
this tragical devotion blurring out the stars
You speak with a passionless passion
Yet my world doesn't fall apart-
It makes the whole universe perish.
That night, the stars seemed to blemish.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:04 PM UTC
I’m here in my mask;
I only wear it on good days,
A mask to hide the scars;
The scars of my life and yours,
Reflecting away my fear;
Ever present yet unseen.
I’m here in my mask;
I wish I wore you more often,
Without expression or feeling;
Undeterred by glaring eyes,
Hiding unkindly shadows;
Silent and passionless.
I’m here in my mask;
Another lonely hidden day,
Sharp yet poker face grey;
Unbetraying to all my secrets,
Shrouded in mystery,
Afraid to feel; to live.
I’m here in my mask;
Yet tire of the truths you hide,
Every-time I wear you;
You fit less comfortably,
Pitted with imperfections;
Cracking like the man beneath.
I’m here in my mask;
But for how much longer?
Dissolving before my eyes;
One day I will take you off,
Lower my guard and reveal;
The mask beneath you.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
youth’s days were borrowed, its number, your name
carefully journaled by razor into soft skin on the back of my hand,
the monument now gently faded into its wrinkles
but dust doesn’t stick to the digits, as scars can’t sweat
I hide them still, wiping away gritty life surrounding
and today, even my wife remains clueless
because you do disappear -
time continues with two people aging together
our gray hairs streaking the basin in morning,
phone calls to the children later
by day I may dream another filthy furrow to fit into,
needing to glimpse again that flimsy past, and then
ponder glued joints of mortise and tenon
or half-lapped, passionless, the strongest, I’m convinced
we never found time to worry over furniture,
or learn that living is contained in mundane details
like dovetails and drawer pulls
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper’s horn, and far off, high in the maples
The wheel of a locust slowly grinding the silence,
Under a moon waning and warn and broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember you, soon the winter will be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction
While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
2.2k
Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
It frets against the boundary shore;
All earth's full rivers cannot fill
The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.
Sheer miracles of loveliness
Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:
Anemones, salt, passionless,
Blow flower-like; just enough alive
To blow and multiply and thrive.
Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike,
Encrusted live things argus-eyed,
All fair alike, yet all unlike,
Are born without a pang, and die
Without a pang, and so pass by.
2k
lightning, thunder
pummeling droplets of rain
vicious, forceful hurricane winds
sweeping, spinning
swept violently away
whipping, ******
dragging me
a helpless rag doll
tugged around
- by my ravaged soul
dizziness, nausea
fractional-seconds, flashes of light
circling; bewilderment
world rushing past
lost in this predicament
having been carried away
so far away
prisoner of this whirlwind
fearsome, raging tempest
powerful and raw
mercilessly desecrated
mindless ****** of innocence
inescapable prison walls
captive of this sociopathic entity
hopeless enslavement
****** over-burdened
foul irony, my fate
- my only companion
pressing, constant reminder
I AM TO BLAME
chained to my own
passionless, encroaching storm -
this loathsome
jerking, twisting, spasm-wracked
hurricane monster
a destroyer -
- my destroyer!
homicidal goddess of obliteration
that I have made
I am my own
storm slave
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:28 PM UTC
I'm looking outside the classroom window
thinking of how i'm going to manipulate this ink
into symbols expressing emotions to catch those of others
how to annotate pain
how to demonstrate euphoria
i look outside the window again. i'm trying too hard
no aches
no delights
no inspiration
cold-blooded and passionless
i wait for ingenuity
but it's not coming
i can't ******* go on like this
i can't look people in the eye and tell them i don't care
knowing i'm not lying
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC
If a hat is a hat for sitting on one's head, what makes a hat a hat, and not a cap instead?
Those things compared may seem silly, but the differences between lust and love are incomparable, really
Lust is a dog with a bark for rotten meat
Love is the hound who shares his savory treat
Lust is a naked tree on a bare winter's day
Love is the comfort on a fragrant, warm spring day
To be serious, lust can make one quite delirious, a want for flesh and passionless *** but love, love conquers all,
as Jesus, our Savior, took our fall, that's the greates example of all
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
It's cold and it's empty, this
hollowed out feeling of pleasure...
I focus on the rush of desire -
desire for the sensations alone...
The sweet friction in my center,
the pounding force of what is
you, merely a tool for my cravings'
fulfillment; an object for nothing
but my physical satisfaction;
a satiating of my burning lust...
You're worthless to me outside
this externally needful task...
Not my heart, neither my soul,
have even the smallest holding
pocket, cradling some sort
of love or care for you...
Tell me, please, why we do
this to ourselves, over and
over, again and again...?
Are we honestly contented by
the passionless movements of
our graceless pieces and parts?
Is this animalistic ritual
the solution for what we so
desperately search for; that for
which we agonizingly struggle,
crawling down confused, tangled
paths, looking without knowing
exactly what we seek,
despairing, sickly, exhausted, and
so pathetic; so pitifully weak??
Are we satisfied with *******
Just ******* could that be
the answer to the question
that, from existence becoming,
the human being has been,
from the depths of the soul,
constantly, repetitively screaming?
I cannot bring myself to
believe such a notion could hold
a sand grain's worth of truth, but
you seem to have accepted
this joyless, hope-crushing idea,
and as for myself, I know
I'll only continue ignoring that
which my heart keeps urgently
speaking with a driving,
whispering voice, from my
inner-most recesses, and
continue on with the oblivious
dance of this pretending; this
charades game all the world
eagerly strives to play...
I will bottle the juices of
my self-deceiving, self-depriving
fruits, borne of my guilt, my
denial birthed shame...
Yes, of course! I'm absolutely
satisfied with the act of
mere ******* Feelings of
wholeness sweep and flutter,
butterflying the insides
of my body's unseen puzzle pieces,
and I'm simply overflowing
with this ever so peaceful calm...
Lies, fiction, deception, robed
by willfully grasped ignorance,
keeps us marching, two-by-two,
silently miserable husks, just
living until it's time to lay
in another void-like place, this
one our grave, lonely and cold...
And now it doesn't seem like
there's anything left, for
any one of us, to say...
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
i used to burn all my bridges
and let other people
regret it for me.
now I just let things slip away
like pennies in deep waters
and it's passionless
and it's dull.
i watched a
seagull catch a fish
out of chicago's river.
fish about
half the size of the bird,
dancing head to beak.
i stood on the bridge
and waited for the ****
to choke.
he didn't.
my pyrex measuring cup
says patent pending
on the side of it.
what the **** are
they waiting for?
what
the ****
am i
waiting for?
life's no good when
you're comfortable.
happy or miserable,
if you're used to it,
you're ******
it's only living
just after the
globes been shook.
just before it all settles.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire
Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire
Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of Love:
Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
An angel with a lily in his hand,
And over both the white wings of a Dove.
1.6k
When did hating myself become such an art?
I am the Da Vinci of self loathing
aiding in the rebirth of shame and inadequacy
After breathing, it is the thing I do most in life
I don't quite recall when my childhood ended
Innocence, hope, love and happiness
were victims of it's downfall
I was a passionate child and now a passionless adult
Obliterated by the home truths of life
I see smiling faces and hear joyful laughter
They are content
I ask in a world
with unimaginable suffering and gross poverty
how anyone can be content with being content
It is a perplexing affair
as you see I am not without
my pomposity and hypocrisy
It is hard to live an ordinary life
when you feel you are destined for extraordinary things
but extraordinary is for the others
the rich, the beautiful, the exceptionally gifted
I am none of these things
Yet how come this underlying
undeniable, unrelenting, overwhelming feeling
burns through me
like a match reaching it's cindered fulfillment
that I am destined for those extraordinary things
I feel I am nothing
but I am something
a human being
In this world
with mind, body and emotion
Alas there it is again
emotion, my emotion
my pitiful yet unwavering hatred of the only one thing
I truly have and need,
myself.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
Standing, soaked, out in a storm, gusts of wind whipping my hair around wildly
Unruly strands sway with the song of chaos, pulling at my scalp, snapping, lashing at my face
My existence is all reality as this whirlwind tempest frantically thrashes about my flesh
In the complex puzzles and foolish games, a simple madness lives, and therein lies my freedom
My tongue and lips sometimes flap boisterously from their spot on my face
And the noises risen up from my throat, and passed through my mouth are meaningless blubberings
Involuntarily, I grin, tasting the nonsense's unique sweetness, and I swallow
My laughter rings out, a vociferous and untameable sound; humor, the voice of a crazy woman
And I spin! Oh, I spin and spin and spin, savagely, in ellipses, ovals, and circle shapes
I've no shame, and this dance is all mine, so I maniacally fling my arms through the air
And as my body makes its revolutions, a fierce smile curves the shape of my lips, wrinkles the corners of my eyes
Inside my mind, wandering - wondering if there's any real difference between elated insanity and that which I crave...
Some people might use words such as eccentric, strange, whimsical, and peculiar for what they cannot understand
So very often I hear these such words being used from those who speak of me
But it is them whom I perceive as being rather off, so habitual and boring, living like routine enslaved, joyless zombies
So unfathomable to me, why most everyone seems to desire nothing beyond a passionless, hollow schedule to, every day, just repeat
Me... I'll race barefoot down a gravel path, through lightning, thunder, and rain, only to feel my hair being twisted and tangled up in the wind
I'll jabber absurdities, laugh like a loon, all while I spin contentedly around and around, until, stupidly dizzy, I crash and fall
Madness pays little mind, stands without worries or concerns, because it believes - it knows, most nothing matters
This is my freedom, freedom that cannot be shared, for what it is, is something that's only freeing for me...
~A. D. Smithson MARCH 2013
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
Let you not say of me when I am old,
In pretty worship of my withered hands
Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
Of such a life as mine run red and gold
Even to the ultimate sifting dust, “Behold,
Here walketh passionless age!”—for there expands
A curious superstition in these lands,
And by its leave some weightless tales are told.
In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;
I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
Impious no less in ruin than in strength,
When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,
Let you not say, “Upon this reverend site
The righteous groaned and beat their ******* in prayer.”
1.5k
I was not passionless, you were my passion, as much as it may sound like a glorification or romanticization. As much as it may have scared you that I may have been in love with only the idea of you.
But the proof was undeniable, those two years were based off more than just an idea, it was something more, a feeling, it was life. You were my life, literally.
You were one of the few things that kept me alive at the time, when I was so terrified of death. With those nights we first spent together, on the golf course, holding hands, and watching that shooting star fall. The nights we would spend in my room just you and I, how I asked if I could lay on your chest, those heartbeats I heard were of the calmest moments in my life. The hours and hours of videogames we would play together, laughing. The things we would watch together as we ate away at what seemed like was our problems. The feeling of your cold floor as I'd walk barefoot to make us tea in your dorms, when I'd lay in bed with you, how cold my feet were as they touched yours, how cold they no longer were after.
And now that it is once again cold, I can't believe that it was only romanticization, regardless of my claims of being a hopelessly romantic writer, I refuse to believe that. That warmth was not a lie.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 1:03 AM UTC
Your eyes are sockets of disapproval
My eyes are sunk in their reticence
Would I be the flustering morning sun?
No I'm not, I only break the dawn
When, creeping from my slothing insolence
I enter the world afresh to some harried call
A new day stretching my body from contortion
To a slumbered, slouched hunch
With bags afrenzy under these eyes that stare back
Are portals to my soul, which is also empty
Reflections of woeful, haggard dejection
Which, in my mind's eye, which is yours,
Give me call to curl back to my hibernation
To recede like my own vacant eyes do,
To my seat of morose repose
Senseless, as I stare thickly into space
Beholding my dreams strewn before me
As I curl away from them, and they seem ever reachable
Moments ago, I used to speak to myself
A mutterance for the day's outlook
Something to find a more suitable reflection
Waiting for me at the day's end
A worldly philosophy, or mind set proposal
But a strange shame spoke back at me,
As I perceived my speaking of these words
That with each day's turn only mildly echoed
As I turned from monotony with each night
To mediocrity of passionless habit
With a pinch of thought each glance conjures
I look upon myself in years,
My futile vision, my rampant egoism
With which the twinkling eye discerns me
At my now stage, and with
Reassuring confidence tells me not to change
As with time's growth will I become you
But blink and I return to forever
For without vigor and drive will this image
Imprint and stagnate its glare upon this glass
My eternal face, my motiveless eyes
Which so piteously transfix themselves on wonder
But turn up only rubble and soil
Now, I turn in disgust, relinquishing my desires
And, turning to the hour, feel slowly
The weight of each second's thunder
Crash upon my shoulders as it is snatched from me
And now I must not lounge through this new morn
I must not lessen with the tide
What I have stored up in greatness
But instead find the key to my ghostly heart
Bring myself back,
Forward into each new life
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
Never cage The Eagle
If you want it to soar!
With a heart filled with sorrow
No amount of love
Can cure a passion lost, caged heart.
No amount of pleading
Will make room in The Eagle's cage
For it to fly and soar.
No matter how much you beg
On bended knee
It will never fly again.
It's qi will leak, from its very core.
It's will to live, will vanquish.
As It gives up It's Life Dream
Slipping silently into
A quiet numbness.
All desire to live passionately, gone.
The Eagle you love
Will turn into a hollow body
That still breathes
With a resignation to a hopeless
passionless, dreamless caged life.
Growing beyond feeling, beyond caring.
Yet, one day when you die
Or your Eagle passes first
The Eagle will open to find what was lost.
Whether in this life or the next
It does not matter.
The Eagle will rejoice and fly again.
From the look on your face
I don't think you liked what I just said.
You do have a choice.
You can choose to set The Eagle free.
In freedom, feed your Eagle with respect
Love, acceptance and care.
Be in awe as you watch
Your Eagle fly toward the heavens
Reflections within the gleaming sun.
Casting It's soaring shadow
Over rivers, canyons and high mountain peaks.
With gratitude your Eagle will return
Again to your loving arms.
Because you love your Eagle enough
To set It free.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
I have not changed in years (it seems),
physically I am constant,
six feet and lopping sack of
bone and skin, buck-forty
on my best, wettest day.
These months have flown as
leaves in fall.
November is come and soon
will escape with the wind
as well and I am solidly planted
at a desk in an office with a
floor too hard to deepen the reach
of my roots.
I am like to wither and rot,
left rootless in snow and
ice; ash of autumn, flowerless.
The trees will die—grounded,
yes, and utterly passionless.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC