"perplexities" poems
"Do you have a lighter? Am I dancing **** yet? Are you watching me because I move alone?"
Well, look a little harder, because as glass reflects on me I reflect back revealing the other side of me.
Two-sided.
She dances with ease.
Do you feel the pain because it's pain that I unleash.
I am the inner workings of your mutability.
I switch up as I am never at true peace.
Look at me, watch me...
Feed on me as I feed onto you.
The perplexities of my intentions are at it's core when I move.
Lost, but just a crazy ***** with the master ability to play with your mind baby.
Do you see it?
I do.
And she's nasty.
Taste her, lick her, **** her.
She's the dark side of me and she's waiting to play.
Tear me up like I'm your doll and grasp onto my insides like the strings have been attached so the grip cannot lose itself in your sins of your sinful embellishment.
Dress me up, move me.
You are my puppet and I only want to tease your mind.
**** me like a twist of your mad insanity.
Play with me.
Taste me, and watch me because, I move alone.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 8:05 AM UTC
The cursed Porcupine
The closer he gets to you
The more he will wound
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
be careful-
you dont want to fall in love with me;
Im hard to hold and cold to touch (fall to pieces/treat the rush).
dont fall in love with me
because Im inherently cruel.
You will put me above all, as the only priority, yet I will never be enough to show you how that feels.
dont fall in love with me
because I will watch you sacrifice, in every moment you thought you knew I will watch as you suffer for what you love.
dont fall in love with me
because I will lock the door
from the inside so dont wait around,
dont fall in love with me
because I know my worth and I will demand many things, most of which will be a challenge,
yet I'll expect everything unto us for I know what my love does really offer.
Fall in love with me and
my soul will trace you back, and you'll see
I'm a rainy night, the silent snowfall in a lonely November; that im the space between each eyelash when you grin. I'm a sunset that hangs over the smoking, foggy lake, and im the tiny hairs that cover a raspberry.
Im a song
and a poem and an epitaph alike
Im the dirt gravel path in the forest you hike.
I'm the wind and the rain
Im the first sip of tea
Im a warning to head,
Im the deep dark blue Sea,
Im whips of hard smoke,
perplexities
Im only what you want me
to be.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
not every poem is about beauty
too caught we are in the moment to write about it
that is what makes it beautiful
pain clings long beyond instants
prolongs and window reflections
engulfing our bones
masticating our stomachs
from slow drip bile coffeemakers in our chest
the line from that one song starts the burning
and the eyes of a stranger flavored with reminders
i wish i could tell him i finally got to ____________
my blood is chunked with tomato slices
acidic clots and stagnant passions
float me in melancholy perplexities
a minute of oddity where emotions
are unidentifiable
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Mankind
What are you doing
Black and white and gray
You twist and turn and rage and shine
My love, your love, our love
My brokenness, your tatters, she crumbles, he shatters
Closed eyes, open mouths, poisoned words, ***** words
Dates, times, places, people, smiles, faces, masks
Him, her, you, me
Talk about people, talk about people
Use them and wear them, win them and hang them
Elegance, poverty, hurricanes far away, imaginary crucifixions
Look at me, look at my scars, look at my hurt, look at my heart
Words and words and words and tasty, tasty words
Names, names, names, a thousand souls, a thousand stories
Changing, twisting, turning, losing, loving
Emotions, complications, complexities, perplexities
It makes me want to say
Mankind
What are you doing
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
through the
Humbling Portal
of these
Hallowed Pages
you'll find
Hesitant Plunges
both by new
and "older"
Honored Poets
using
Harmonious Palettes
to create
Haunting Pictures
sometimes giving a
Heavenward Peek
through
Hypnotic Potpourri
Heady Perfume
even
Happy Poison
while
Hapless Pixies
and
Hopeful Prophets
Hunt Pearls
and
Hold Parades
that result in
Holy Pandemonium
yet
within our reach are
Homegrown Peaches
Hanging Pome
for our
Hungry Prowling
as we read
tales of
Heartless Paramours
Hissing Pit-vipers
who gave
Half Promises
we decipher
Humorous Puzzles
Hardest Perplexities
based on
Hysterical Pretexts
until our eyes see only
Haphazard Pixels
on the screen
and in a
Helpless Panic
we quickly read
the notes
a
Hasty Postlude#
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
artifice, oh artifice of deception
miraculously ameliorated
by a strategy masquerading as a reality
or a reality masquerading as a strategy
leads to unresolved questions
of the perplexities that tug
at the heart of many truths
laying bear the spontaneous rhythms
of a mind in motion with
an unprecedented intensity
of a struggle to articulate
perceptions of a shattered understanding
of absurdities proclaimed as violations
of moral obligation
for morality is nothing more than opinion
that has a treasonous alliance with itself
giving birth to illegitimate validations of stupidity
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
the world never fell out from under you, no
you constructed safety nets like trampolines because you were always paranoid about the end of the world and since i was your world you wondered about the end of me
but i don't think you thought very hard about the end of you
the one that got tangled in dreams bigger than yourself; the ones that validated you and made you feel you had something worth struggling for, a rope on your back to secure your insecurities as you scaled the molehills you made out of mountains
did you ever think about the girl who had nothing to prove
the girl who showed you everything and for some reason that made you the bigger person
it's just that-
i was peanut butter and you were two years old
i guess your mom never told you how to grow up and decide if you had phobias or allergies
because i wouldn't have minded the way the hives erupted across your face like volcanoes without a cause
i would've rubbed your back with chamomile lotion and tried to read your sores like braille--
but i was peanut butter
and you were two years old
and i guess your mom never told you how to grow up and decide if you had a peanut allergy or commitment issues
(perhaps you had both)
perhaps you were so scared of the reaction you would have to someone who would lace your veins with her own blood if you needed, someone who was so willing to hand over her perplexities and let you examine them like a rubik's cube- is that what i was
because i always made it perfectly clear that i loved you
because i don't like seeing you sore and angry like that
i hate the way i hear your bones sigh when you move
the sticks and stones were never really a problem for you
but i think the burdens of my words broke you a little
the words that always made it perfectly clear that i loved you and
i guess you would always ask why but i always thought that some questions don't need an answer
and the only thing i could think of was that if people really are dust like the Bible says, then i was a molehill and you were a mountain
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Take me out on late night drives
In worn out places where we can hide
Take me to your hidden cities
Roads less travelled by the weary
Where we can immerse ourselves in the perplexities of love
And until the morning light shines above
We'll marvel the vagaries of our youth
And the beauty of not knowing what we have until we've lost what we'd become
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 5:20 AM UTC
When you cease to talk to me
I feel empty more than you imagine
My life seems to drain away
I sit and wait for you to call
Or drop me some long awaited text message
Then does my heart rejoice
Trying to slow my return text
Oh, she replied in 15 minutes
That means I have to wait at least 45
Eh, I managed 35, let's do it anyways
And thus we continue our beleaguered talk
I want to be near you
To talk in person
But without a prepaid gas card
That will definitely not happen
Though every weekend just might be possible
I will do my best to be around you
But my lips will invariably stray
Wandering away from you is unquestionable
Though how often is up for debate
I will do my best to make it less than once a week
I'm sorry for quitting you so quickly
I must be the biggest freak
That you have ever met
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 8:27 PM UTC
Poetry doesn't always have to rhyme.
Sometimes it's just how you see life
Or how life sees you
Or sees itself.
It's a strange concept- life.
I was once asked by a younger friend of mine, although I am merely twenty-three, what was the meaning of life?
I, like many others, didn't know the answer to such a complex question, but still I pondered it.
I recalled a moment in my life where I had been experimenting with marijuana, not as a means of simply getting baked, but as a tool to experience.
In one of my psychedelic wanings between time and space, I found myself asking questions.
I swirled into myself, my true self, and found that, from my perspective, life is meant as an experience.
To live
To love
To feel
To learn
To understand
To teach to others what we have learned.
And in knowing this- life, and the world I see from my infinitely finite point in this mass of perplexities, became all the more beautiful.
I began to see things as others do.
And still, it was beautiful.
Beautiful, because I was allowed by the creator to experience and wonder the poetry that has been laid before us.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
I’ve been left alone in my class as I always am.
I observe how beige encrustings work on the ceiling humming electronically in this feeble light we have with our current weather like mistied silver with choked charcoal out of someone’s throat stoic with inexistent illness.
It seems to me I’m pressed with time to go out as I usually am
by some codexes
but I just can’t help being glued standing to my chair and watching with an unspecified wistfulness and melancholy as students’ bike
/
come and go here from above
/
and no one knows how many afternoons of watching or window sill standing I’ve spent like that,
where the window the teacher has every time overlooks one
of these trees only I keep in my mind’s eye
and all that with me included stays
abandoned (but not exactly morosely) to play the part of watch keepers lasting still
like pillars no one will account for.
And l felt how my shift there and the thing I and this room made chose you to be answered there.
And as I couldn’t help but keep carrying the conscience luggage with you within it so carefully whilst I was blending my abandoned singing there with how you might be transfixing yourself in perplexities of uncertainty.
And I’m telling you I read your text place just when it came, have been carrying you as my desired task to, as an injured animal yet with no degradation this state. I kept making a letter I would give inside my eyes and small fidgets of hands.
I wonder at how it is I who writes
and how it is You who writes.
One another.
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 9:46 AM UTC
outer, inner what are realities
conscious, unconscious
differing thought that gives
tangible form to such as that
which has only existed in my imagination
when voiced indicate the delirium
of those dark despairs
that hang pitch black draperies upon the wall of my mind
in continuous distortion of ordinary motives
amplify my feelings, implosive and apocalyptic
forming an agonized arena of anguish
whose illusion is a disguise of perplexities
in a deployment of destrubing exchanges
of dubious sense that sit like a petulance
upon the mind
while I in patience stand smiling at my grief
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
The spoilt demons coil out the merriment which I feel inside my heart to rid off their vibes which lead them towards insecurities. They just want their needs to be served and cravings to be fulfilled. They have a virtual dissent from my claim that I own them. They think they are inherently independent and will always remain. Their coherent behavior has made me remember the words of those royalties which used to persuade me about the existence of these demons and I used to seize those remarks and then try so hard to make them slip away like a gushing sand so I could make an excuse that they were non-existent. Those royalties were brimmed with a longitude of wisdom and a latitude of experience. I still feel the vibes of those affliction which these demons send towards my way so I might get mutilated through them. But, they fail each time. After collapsing from a great height of my courage, they just enclose themselves in a prairie of desolation. I abduct them in the cage of my valor and ask them about their endeavors which they have channelized to make me their captive. I ask them about the further strategies of crushing me down. Their weak laughter spills out everything whatever they yearn to utter but then those utterance is roped by the pull of tongue and these ****** black holes become silent and remain in an unanswered state forever. I plunged deep into my perplexities and found my answers myself. Those answers didn't dazzle because I guess my introspection triumphed this time. Those answers came up with a ****** of agonies and a drummer of torments. The only thing which was in scarce was the tumultuous droughts of wisdom which nulls out the ferocious waves of experience. I couldn't do anything except closing my eyes and going with the flow. Alas! I could destroy those ****** dark holes forever. They still can transform into various ways because they are 'independent' demons. Let counterattack their modes of transmission so they can get dependent on me. But, wait, what if I invited them myself through my vengeance and rage..Then, they will have a right to maintain an usurp ********** on me and I would be devastated. Lets just go with the flow and enjoy the perks of Dementia ——forgetfulness.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
I'm a song and a poem and an epitaph alike. I'm the dirt gravel path in the forest you hike. I'm the wind and the rain, I'm the first sip of tea
I am the red haze above the deep dark blue Sea.
I'm whips of hard smoke, fresh perplexities-
im only what
you want me to be,
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
The struggle is only half the fall from the edge.
Perplexities are disciplined by the questions of everyday situations,
But you dictate the lust, the intellectual competence and the happiness:
All excreted from the fruit of life.
It's a whimsical dance kept to a rhythm of creative absurdity,
Blissfully expounding on the calming breeze.
The pleasing uncertainty invites the ember to burn
Until the brazen flames scorch the fear in a call to courage;
Our own normative theory.
The space is gone, pressed against the wall, steps would only plummet.
Faced on the edge, rubble chirping down the cliff,
Realization of the other half churns your thoughts upwards,
Tying together tightly in a choke.
It finally makes sense; already accomplished the top.
Handle half, climb higher and then.....
Jump again
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
He's just a vapor appearing on the horizon..
offering me some.
He's just a musical tune,
a story that I zoomed in on ta listen ta its toon.
And I don't wanna feel a thing.
Feeling is costing me somethings.
I don't want that vapor of smoke..
I have wings to keep me afloat.
Baby your wanting that private moment.
I'ma wonder where it went.
I need ta feel what your flying on.. what keeps ya strong.
Has you holding on..Makes ya wanna bring me along.
I'm tired of wondering.
Tired of witholding.
Maybe I just need scolding.
Cuz I knew all along
yah was just a vapor of smoke on the horizon.
Wanting and needing yah some...One!
Maybe meh.
what ever it is your experiencing.
imagining... and playing within your mindful melodies
be at ease ALLOW ROOM for my perplexities.
and excuse my exits when I need em.
Cuz you are like Mr. give me some relax have fun.
And I must be mindful of meh.
And not feel a thing..you see.
by selinasharday Rose 2017 S.A.M
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
rinsing my flask, this late afternoon
and scouring to steal anything from my father's humble tavern: Chilean.
bought on stolen wine, this daze,
pacing itself carefully, as masterful as
a leering puma poised to strike
with a dull blade duller than stab-wound,
nobody heard this primal man cry in the
woods and i'm no dangerous man.
just a shadow that fits the sizable hands
of the world cupped, the afternoon is slain and the hue is its blood:
something the brush of the wind
sensuously brings a roulette of red
blue, lavender, viridian,
plucked out of the vermilion
wading out as a debris forgotten waltzes
with the river underneath the kamagong— an answerless enigma amid all
perplexities,
are we but nothing whilst we live?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 3:35 AM UTC
in the morning,
you wonder to yourself why
you feel effusive,
and then you remember that
you were left with
nothing but melancholy.
he left you with pieces of yourself
still under his teeth and you
ponder why you
feel so empty.
you always put fragments
of your tumultuous love on
anything else that ensorcelled
you and yet you still
question why you
feel so vapid.
in the afternoon,
you gaze at the gaps of
your woven heart,
admiring how you still chose
to love albeit it has been
treated by uncouth and
cantankerous men, grabbing your
jagged edges and claiming it as a phantom's home.
walking home was certainly an
experience for you, you were
scrupulous on avoiding the cracks
on the sidewalks because you
were afraid you would fall too deep and wander around the empty
hallows of quandary.
in the evening,
you wear
a careworn visage.
the efflorescence that you
once desired for was kept
untouched at the kiss of the
pale moonlight, swooning you with every echo of apologies dripping down
your god-forsaken body.
your heart, beaten and
turned into everything
sublime, is ensconced behind
the walls, cosseting the bruises
he had left you and not once did his
eyes become rueful.
loving is a mixture of
boiling thoughts and sleepless
nights, a state of perplexities
wherein you plead that
maybe, just maybe, he still thinks
about you too.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC
here begins the inconsequential tale of the often dazed and disordered galaxy that is myself, a being complied of a disarray of many perplexities that seem to structure this petite framework of a human body, attained with a memory of pablo neruda balladries and an affinity for the convoluted, intricate aspects of life. many of these compositions are latent, obscure pieces that i have chosen to keep undisclosed, however i firmly believe that sharing my expressions and assessments of what i have envisioned through my eyes could be deemed cathartic. consequently, enjoy these chaotic chapters of very extensive yet overtly down-hearted paragraphs and ostensibly compressed sentimental writings; they were all short-lived, yet felt like an eternity when scribbled senselessly into a diary by a hard-headed omission.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 5:27 PM UTC
July 1999
The moon makes patterns on my floor,
leaf-edged and almost still.
The thick blanket of night silence cushions
the little sounds
of talking wood,
the rhythmic heartbeat of a dripping tap,
a bark in the distance
that is passed on faithfully in highs and lows
to north and south and east and west.
I wish I understood its message.
Sensitivity quivers
and a hundred crawling perplexities
mate and multiply and mutate
into grotesque monsters
that pulse electric shock
after shock
after shock
until the patterns on the floor
reduce them to limp, exhausted slugs.
I long for night to end and never end.
Leaf-edged and almost still,
the moon makes patterns on my mind.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
In time,
we all become the pearls
until then the
swine have their way.
Oysters and clams and man's desire to rule,
the opening and shutting of mouths
oh
the fool of it,
blowing perplexities like bubbles of gum
chewing on daydreams hoping some truth
will come from the eyes of blind soldiers who
fight for a King to bring home their blindness
who then will sing of
the beauty in war?
only the dead for the quick get away.
Stay awhile Sally and tell me some more of
the why and the wherefore,
art thou the scribe who writes legends on skin
tattoos the bullets that rattle on in and in a moment
of madness draw pictures of children asleep
in the fray,
stay awhile Sally and write me this death of a day.
In time if time allows the why and the how of it
will be written on tombstones and in this place
of dry bones filled with sorrow and grief,
a relief
is surely on the way.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC