"perpetuated" poems
We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists
and begs that,
if only for a moment,
our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.
A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.
The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.
The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.
We cannot write silence,
but we can try.
to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.
I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.
I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.
I love to hate you
Heart.
I hate to love you too.
I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
A new year is come and you're still not gone.
I can feel you creeping up on me. You feed on my energy, yet, I cannot see you. I'm glad I can't see your face.
You smell like an old forgotten rot underneath a seam of doors hiding the old death of forgotten men. Your cousin looms, taunting me to acknowledge your presence.
You climb on my back--you've caught up to me.
I've tried running, it doesn't help. You live under my shadow; you're quiet like him too.
I can hear the smack of your lips graze across my consciousness, your breath--icy. You touch my eyes and they freeze without freezing. The hairs on the back of my head hurt because they stand on end amidst your frozen breath. You make your move and whisper icily into my ear,
. . . . You're nothing.
I almost agree.
. . . . No one loves you.
My wife does! And my daughter too!
. . . . No one wants to hear you speak.
Fine, I'll shut up. I look into a mirror to see my reflection staring back at me. My icy stare sends chills to my bones. Is that really me?
. . . . Yes, you're dead.
Sometimes I feel like it, yeah.
. . . . Nothing matters.
Finally, we agree on something.
. . . . It would be better if you just weren't here.
I begin to cry.
. . . . Remember your daughter, here's a picture.
She's so beautiful. I cry some more.
. . . . You will fail her.
. . . . You have failed her.
. . . . I will consume her.
. . . . You perpetuated this all on your own.
. . . . You're a fraud, seeking pity.
. . . . You're a sorry person, aren't you?
. . . . Feel that burning inside you? This is what happens when you let in the dark passenger.
. . . . I shall consume you, too.
. . . . --AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.
Yes, it is my fault. Like the fault line in the earth's crust, my mind splits in twain.
The excitement ends when I've become drunk with madness, not seeing the light around me. I sleep a little, contemplating all that I convinced myself.
In the morning the sun is out, shining through the window. You're still sleeping though, dear dark passenger. I try not to wake you. I seek the sun hoping you will disappear and take your darkness with you, but you persevere, keeping your hands at the ready until I am vulnerable again, waiting to make my dance to the tune of hopelessness--always just, "one more time."
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 4:39 AM UTC
equality; a perpetuated falsehood.
unfettered
THE POWERFUL devour the weak
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
It's hard to extol the merits of mankind
and to lavish excessive praise is insane;
recognize the gamut of vain emotion
and treatment of our brothers that's inhumane.
The natural nature of man is hardly good -
Proof is found in our vocabulary;
despite incredible accomplishments of this world,
poor relationships of man to extremes are still carried.
Our literature and news is littered
with ugly views of crime and hate.
For brief review of the damage perpetuated,
let's take time to reiterate.
There's slavery, ****** ****** torture,
greed, **** hatred, genocide, racism,
bigotry, fear, starvation, thievery,
lasciviousness and terrorism.
Uncaring predators have always existed,
unable to overcome the evil within.
Such conditions show our need for a loving God,
to triumph over the presence and affects of sin.
Author Note:
From my book: Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
The ISBN is: 1-4196-5051-3
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:32 AM UTC
At one point I called you father, and meant it.
You were not my father by blood, simply by marriage.
I had longed for a father figure for as long as I could remember,
A man who would love and raise me as his own.
The good memories were brief snippets of happier times,
While the bad were vivid, distinct memories that lasted for what felt like hours.
A nightmare that I could never escape from,
They were engrained in my memory like the words to my favorite song.
I wish I could forget all the difficult memories and focus on the good times that we had together.
What little they were, anyways.
I wish I could forgive, the way my five year old self did,
Oh, the love and admiration she had for you.
Now all that was left was anger and a bitter resentment.
The anger and confusion that came with the abuse that you perpetuated.
I would never call you Father again, if I ever saw you
I would look at you in disgust and pity,
For you will never know true, selfless, love.
And for that, I feel sorry for you.
~sdr
Oct 15, 2021
Oct 15, 2021 at 2:25 PM UTC
Tightness invades
Hard
Aching
Ghoulish Blackness smothers joy
Strings of dark energies crawl
Hopelessness Penetrates down, down, down
Mind marathons madness music
Pain ripens like a withered rose
Physical Plane Arduous
Psychic Pain Perpetuated
In this hallowed Hell
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I dwell in possibility.
- Emily Dickinson
I dwell in the possibilities birthed by the daily Immanuel
I dwell in the possibilities whispered by the wonderful Counsellor
I dwell in the possibilities wrought by the almightiest God
I dwell in the possibilities perpetuated by the everlasting Father
I dwell in the possibilities secured by the Prince of all peace makers
And I dwell with Him where all things have possibilities
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 5:41 AM UTC
Oh, I got that feeling again. I’ve been staring at the ceiling again. Letting my heart take flight, as the music reaches its height, taking my thoughts out of minds’ sight. But this feeling I now fight, cannot be controlled. Cannot be moved, overcome, or even forced to fold. Gripping my ever-changing soul and forcing my hands. As my breath leaves my body and my feet forget to stand. Hands pushed to speak through the letters they find. Putting feelings to words that cant seem to speak my mind. Frustrated by my inaction, that passively takes form. In the words I now force to unwilling conform. To these one-inch margins that box in my thoughts, constricting my deepest feelings and simplify life’s plot. All perpetuated by the rhythm, of the ever-spinning fan. Mounted just above my bed, that seems to hypnotize what’s in my head. Threading image to feeling, and my feelings to my words. As the tapestry of us, now resembles fleeing birds. Each winged reminisce that has forever taken flight, a moment in time that will always hold spite. Towards cliffs edge that stands between what the heart seeks. And a mans inability to step beyond its daunting peak. So with time ticking down and our future running by, I stand at a distance and continue our little lie. One living in the shadows of nights eternally pasted on, when passions ignited without though of our coming dawn. Only of the connection made with courage in hand, liquefied to motivate beyond what history had banned. What allies once forbid and witnesses cheered on, inhibition finding wind and politics forgone. Now forced to be nothing more then memories in the sand, as our hourglass approaches empty and my thoughts continue to be fanned. Continue to find rhythm as the blades spin madly by, ticking down to a day when I cannot take the lie. Cannot take this falsehood that pushes me from behind, as I approach that daunting edge of my own terrified mind. So with time in short supply along with my pride, I put black to white and our segregation aside. In the hopes that time stands still for just a moment more, to help you understand that it is you I adore.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
I am a criminal,
A low down ***** convict,
Robbing old ladies and turning the youth into like minded thugs and killers.
With my gun, I can turn any day into new years eve.
Bang! Pow!
I've just shown you how,
I ***** somebody's light out.
I live by the gun
Ready to pull it out and start blasting away,
And if you're in the way?
I hope you've had an eventful final day.
One more body to my death toll is of little consequence.
And to those who choose to cross me
will be dealt with in a premeditated sequence.
So many women I've widowed,
So many children I've left with only half a family.
Do I care?
No.
For my heart is as black as my skin
I have no feelings of remorse or empathy.
Or do I?
Am I really this despicable person?
Is what I've just said is not me at all,
Or just what people perceive me to be.
The truth is, that's all it is
A perception
A perverted perception forced upon me and others like me by illogical stereotypes,
A perverted perception perpetuated to the the point where it has become the status quo,
A belief so deeply ingrained in the minds of the masses that I become public enemy number one, two and three,
so deeply ingrained that I should not know what it means to be free,
so deeply ingrained that I should not even be given the change to better myself.
Does this perception out rank reality?
Does conceptuality govern the actuality of reality?
If so, I perceive this world to be full of ****
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 5:37 AM UTC
/ *because such examples have to, have to(!) be perpetuated, reiterated, perpetuated, reiterated... these... "things"... these minor quests of establishing being - against, the authoritarian rule of the democracy of beings.*
you don't shout,
you don't disturb the "social", "peace",
of proverbial english society...
nope...
shouting does not good,
akin to:
silent water eats
away at the shorelines...
what you do...
is akin to what birds do...
you don't gnash your teeth:
i.e. clench them molars...
gnashing means clenching
your molars -
a gnashing a gnarling,
a pestle & mortar scenario...
no...
no shouting...
silent movie era of hollywood
translated...
you... simply... chatter...
you strike incissor teeth against
each other... crafting a lightling storm
like crackling sound,
like corn flakes...
in a bowl of milk...
you... chatter...
inspiration? birds...
bird calls...
you... chatter...
mind you, unlike the english,
looking into my mouth...
the jaw should fit within the confines
of the skull...
the upper set of teeth
should accommodate the jaw's
line of teeth...
but you simply... chatter...
which is embodied by attempting
to take a phantom bite at "something"...
you...
echo:
central incisors against
the lateral incisors...
you subsequently: chatter (χατερ)...
i missed the eta (η): given that i also
missed the excess of tau - in what isn't,
a translation - other than a phonetic
equivalent of putting on sunglasses...
because, when your neighbour,
tells you... that you can't smoke...
in your own home, perched on a windowsill,
out of the window,
implying that the smoke is
vacuumed into his bedroom?
and somehow, the law,
and the air, we share, is somehow his,
and his alone?
and i can't do, what he can,
within the confines of his property?
NOW WE HAVE A PROPER SHITSHOW!
some english are ******* backward
hardly insulting the ****** community,
with some succumbing to prosopagnosia,
while some (notably down syndrome)
actually having a memory capacity...
that curious look and a familiar expression
waiting for a smile...
i basically live next to a mental illness
example, par uno...
and englishman who "thinks"
he's king, rather than a convenient
citizen...
****** won't budge...
guess all i'm equipped with is
my chatter remedy;
and english society still "thinks"
that i'm the "mad" one.
- because it's like...
how can you dictate, what someone can,
or cannot do, on their property?!
like smoking a cigarette,
perched on a windowsill, outside a window,
with the accusation:
the smoke is coming into my bedroom...
oh right...
so...
erm...
you own the dynamic of air
to suggest such a bias?
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
unsheathe your ****
& swing away
slice the scars between
every leg
tears and blood
& latex rubber
get on your knees and bow
my 'lover'
-you are mine
i am i
rip and ride and
leave you dry
wipe those tears
from your face
open your mouth
as i fire away
swallow down we need not waste
(the system that we breed in is perpetuated by PHALLISCY ! CASTRATE THOSE WHO OPPRESS YOU!)
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 11:18 AM UTC
at some point, you just know that
you have got to let them go
of the first time we connected
all those memories we both established
those quirks, my quirks
and remained are flaws, irredeemable flaws
of the places we visited
and of the places that could have been
they now remain as stolen dreams
and retain in them, nightmares born
to its deserving king
of the ideas and lies that
perpetuated my thoughts
to you and for you
like a love that stalks rather
than one you wish I would have
of you
he who once was the sun to me
whose smile was solace like the moon
and though, most probably, it was all built in lies
it was something, truly moving
but remains in the sky, was nothing
that is why these things have to go
the stains that once belonged
and in their places are impressions, gone
what now remains, if they wish to remain,
are dreams that turned into nightmares
ghosts that I long ignored
love once harbored
and... you
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 9:58 AM UTC
Time’s up
Times up!
Hollywood says,
glad for sordid Weinstein
for setting up the stage..,
but, please do explain
that there’s a sitting President
who publicly claimed
to grabbing women’s *****
all because he can!
Times up!
but, the script has not been reversed,
the discourse dies a little
every time a women’s story
is subjected to shame.
Time’s up, for who, I ask?
When only the story of the powerful
is being told!
Who will play the little girl
who’s innocence got taken away?
When Barbie is still playing doctor with Ken,
yet no one says, Ken is a grown up man!
Who’s playing the story of the women
who can’t report her husband for ****
How can he **** her? She belongs to him!
Time’s up, I wonder when!
When time is a concept we don’t understand...
and ****** someone gives you
five months in the can?
Time’s up, but who will play the story?
When our original sin starts with parents
who had *** with their offspring’s!!
Shiit, Adam and Eve...
you really are dammed,
damming us to perpetual violence
to the very ones we give birth!!
Time’s up! It’s really inspiring.
I hope that legislatively
it creates an impact.
I hope parents all over the earth
begin to openly talk to their children
about molestation and ****
We all know the math...
90% of all **** is perpetuated by someone
you’ve already met!
Time’s up!
The phone’s ringing....
in the time I wrote this script,
someone else was already *****
LeydisProse
1/7/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
#timesup **** #metoo #notonemore
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
Rosemary sat in the shade for too long,
still she watered her toes.
While the Sun went by each day
with wonderful, multi-spectrum indifference,
she started to mold.
The Sun was oblivious to the life he perpetuated.
And the Moon turned the tides
And the waves reflected her lovely face-
neither knew the other.
That was the very same moment that
Time got lost in the eyes of his lover,
the Light, and in their love for their children,
The Sun and the Moon
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
perpetuated indifference
freedom and fleas
cats in the trees
loving the grass and twigs
between my knees
and toes
and fragments
in my hair
my clothes
and on a day such as forever
I spoke to another
terribly,
not so good at words
with others
who say words back,
pretty little polka dotted
circles and nonsense
like who are you kidding?
Individuality is not a crime
though faking it is,
as if being unique is even unique
but another copy
of another
a thought already thought
shush up
kiss like a real person
not a slobbery
monstrous
adolescent,
but like a man who knows
or at least cares,
but not about the earth crusts on my skin
or the air in my finger nails
it's all me
and if they can't like it
can't love it
in any way
that can be considered love
or positive
in any form or shape or sound or purpose
then forget
to forget
because sometimes
one is ****** up
and enjoys
a little game
of brain bashing insecurity,
until that day when one becomes self-actualized
(oh please)
and then real forget and freedom may happen.
How boring.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
Every inch of our ceiling
is bruised in memory,
watercoloured blues
fade into last Summer's browns.
It hurts.
Night brings the poetry
I'm still trying not to trip over,
the written and spoken wounds
that mark my body
still spell out your favourite weapons:
1) Ginsberg
2) Naivety
3) Perpetuated incompleteness.
I am anatomically structured for
falling apart with one cut heart string
at a time; a countdown only I control.
One only you tick for.
One day you'll learn
that the world is made from tissue paper,
and tears as easily as I.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
How much do we have to take before we can go without, how long before the draught? death by entertainment, it seemed so glamorous how could one go without?
I knew better to begin with, now its time to have faith in my oneness. opening a new chapter to a story that has no end, doing away with infinite incarnations perpetuated by masochistic sin. Death to the creator, the created, the masturbated, incubated, presipitated falsehoods of pajentry. Death to all the silly megabytes of pompous epiphany. Death to the beast that thrived off of insecurity. Death to all that which is no longer me.
Unsimulated, unappropraited energy that is free to be anything but alerts on a screen. False flags of fullfillment waving endlessly with self pity. Perfectly punctuated cries for help and lol's that reeked of nothing but "I hate myself."
Cut the net, it's a trap for something fluid with that which doesn't connect. Don't bother looking here for love, it is already in all that doesn't limit itself.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
An agglomeration of accomplishments
Trophies enameled with false hope
And worth their weight in insignificance
They keeping piling up endlessly
Scatter them around this ice-cold structure we call home
So we can marvel at the sight of them
In our blissful illusion
Let the realism invade our psyches
To claim it’s rightful place.
Tethered to this pedestal
The highest I have ever seen
It is a long way down this precipitous slope
I want to descend
Then smash it to smithereens
Finger nails peeling off
As I scratch away at the wall
To tear it down so I can flee
Out
Of this womb of perpetuated cloistered existence.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Negativity is not always overtly depressive,
Positivity is not always overtly happy.
Negativity eats away, piece by piece.
It hides in the banal.
Its disguised by layers of colour,
Noise, applause.
Negativity is drip fed, unnoticed.
The bland
The ordinary
The acceptable
Even the comfortable.
Negativity keeps you in your place,
Convinces you
How good you’ve got it,
Fosters no hope,
Breeds joy in superficiality.
Negativity is not a natural state of mind.
No one wants it, yet
Its continually perpetuated by those
Who are blind to it.
Negativity tells you that Positivity is frivolous and childish,
Happy-clappy psycho-babble,
Is an immense effort, an uphill struggle,
A dream, stupid, deluded, unobtainable…
Well, it would, wouldn’t it? Its Negative.
Negativity sets you unattainable goals,
Holds up a false mirror,
Tells you that you need to be
What you can’t be…
But still you ache, drive, strive
To get there,
Concentrating all energy on it,
To the detriment of all else.
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 1:42 PM UTC
Why am I called "white"?
Why am I an absence of color
To be associated with purity
Flawless innocence
A clean slate
Why am I called "white"
When I have the blood of monsters in my veins
There is nothing immaculate about my heritage
Simply from a lack of pigmentation
My hair is braided with the ******* of masses
My eyes see the broken lives of the oppressed
My ears hear the echoes of homelands invaded
And my hands hold the books with the historic lies enclosed
Why am I called "white"
Compared, as if, to the paper
On which my people's crimes could be written
Repeating so frequently with so many new victims
But we are never called to justice
And the cycle remains unbroken
When we are addressed
We stand up from our thrones, screaming
"Unfair, cruel, why attack me?!
I don't understand, what privilege do you see?!"
We act like the victims, fed by the system
And we eat it up with our metaphoric silver spoons
Why am I called "white"
I've been stained from the years of hatred
Perpetuated by a people who claim guiltlessness
Just because they are a newer generation
What was once called subjugation
Is now appropriation
But both are used to deny culture and rights from nations
But I won't sit by and prolong this delusion that we are any better
Any more beautiful then any other one of God's creations
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 5:52 AM UTC
Dear Rosie
I wonder, what kind of black woman are you?
Because as we discussed various -isms, you refuted your womanism, you refuted racism, you refuted sexism. You are "Rosie"
Dear Rosie
I want to know where you come from. Who taught you to tear down women that look like you, that came from a black woman's womb just as you did. Where did you learn to silence us in that confused mind of yours where you said our opinions irritate you and are worthless to your education?
Dearest Rosie
Tell me how the oppressed became the oppressor. Because as I look at your dark chocolate skin I am curious what you see when you look in the mirror. A reflection of privileged whiteness? You say oppression does not matter. You asks for facts. Well, statistics show us that people that look like you are dying whether you acknowledge your blackness or not. Women like you are being silenced and underrepresented in the public sphere regardless if you take it for face value. Women like us have lost sons to officers, husbands to cells, brothers to jails.
Dear Rosie
Wake the **** up. Each time you slice our tongues from the black reality that black women may not matter as much as they do in this safe space, each time you preach of your humanist kumbaya resolution that separates us from race gender and sexuality, each time you say our opinions do not matter, they win. The system wins. Because they'll use some token like you to represent our mass majority and say "She agrees with us so all black people do too." I refuse to be represented by a peer that denounces my womanism, my feminism, my black nationalism because it's not white enough for her (black) skin.
Not inclusive enough to a white population that has excluded people like me for centuries. It is not my duty to make some ************ feel comfortable with my blackness ,to relieve them of guilt when they've perpetuated guilt on me because of my blackness.
Dear Rosie.
Don't let them win.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
the divergence of roads
is an illusion
a myth perpetuated
by those who fear solitude
but one who has walked the lonely path
enjoyed all its sights, sounds and sceneries
rested in the shade of its motherly oaks
knows that at last
everything converges
every road, every fellow traveller
every other choice
meets at one
single brilliant point
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
08.02.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish,
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
The minute handed the past
while seconds elapsed alarms.
Expectations lead to patience
- causations falling over charm.
Unrequited executed hanging
on holding all the rest.
Sincerity perpetuated,
unresolved swinging at last.
Barefoot without impression
you remembered this pair.
Unexpected crosswords
rising letters to share.
An exchange of auditions
retracting resigned conditions.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
Conjure belief where assurance
is easily tempted from doubt.
The physical world acts on
a point to point basis
of action, reaction.
Where the genesis of relativity
as the golden rule
mediates the knowledge
that is perpetuated by irony
through circumstance
and the accidental
incidental coincidences
that bend time.
Symmetry is a natural motion of
consistency, extending from an apex
or midlines, transverses, logarithmic expressions
all from some single origin.
The palms of our hands
are textual markings
of our need for symbolic understanding
in the variances
we create for scientific observation.
Juxtaposed to the stars we created
circular pieces to a wheel in the sky
we hypochondriacs believe
to superimpose as vaccines,
to our inconsistencies we host
as symbiotes
for inverse proportionality.
From the signal, beat, tone,
and definitive sounds
is the pulse of our momentum,
a return to equilibrium.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
It was a normal two scorpion and one rattlesnake day at 112° in Wichita Falls , Texas .
Texas . . . they made Hell out of the good parts of Texas and the rest of the state just went there . Fortunately my parents only went there so my little sister could be born there . We left the great state of Texas and moved to the incestuous state of Alabama .
Where the impossible will always remain the same . And the possible will be banned , outlawed , and perpetuated behind countless barns , toolsheds , and the outhouse known as Montgomery , the State Capitol . Called the Heart of Dixie (it should be called ******* of Dixie and thank God for Mississippi , for they have wrest that title away from us . But we gave it a-hell-a-va-fight .)
We are a multicolored society . We have white (the pressence of all color) and black (the absence of all color). Which is strange now because the black people are called colored and the white people are called all kinds of blacked out names (usually on court documents).
Alabama is proud of it's educational system . We measure one's intelligence by how soon they leave the state for better opportunities . In Alabama an educated person is a four letter word , like *** hole , or worse . Oops !
Let me see now . . . one , two , three , four . . . got to tale off my shoe . . . five , six , seven . . . wait a minute . . . *** hole ? . . . is that one or two words .
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC