"persists" 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
*Remember how you tried to burn me and reduce me to ruins?
••
The fire still persists,
And feeds on your cursed life.*
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Fifty years later their love has not blemished
it's only grown stronger it will not deplenish.
They still like to kiss at those midnight hours,
he still buys her chocolates and beautiful flowers.
Their love story continues to write out more pages,
as their love persists throughout the ages.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
Just when I think
I've known the world
I come to the realization
That I've only seen it
Through my own two eyes.
It eats at me
Though I shouldn't be bothered
And yet
I can't help but wonder why.
What do strangers see
When they watch my favorite film
And what do they hear
In their favorite songs?
What do others girl feel
When they knowingly fall in love
With someone
Who's stringing them along?
What do my parents know
When they look at the roads
They've walked down
Many more times than I?
What do babies think
When the world's so unknown
And they can only use their voices
To cry?
Where is the truth
In others' opinions
So very different from mine?
Where lies the inspiration
Of other writers
As they steadily type
Each line?
In the end
There's not much of a point
Unless reincarnation exists.
But frustration prevails
Knowing my eye's the limit
And my curiosity
You see
Persists.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 1:08 AM UTC
Human directives, veracities unverified
Bellies belching with anger, murderers
Udders dripping hate, foundling banters
Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate
Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink
Tear motions and debates of inequality
My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise
All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield
Emergency alarms sirens from 2003
The indefinite complications and hunger
A land of the displaced, starving nomads
Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts
Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious
A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws
Inhumane human interrogations persists
A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve
Force-feeding, torturous measures applied
All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed
A Rwanda slain in divide and rule
Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed
Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves
Machetes slashing necks and hands
A lust of power, a genocide slaughter
The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch
Autocratic regime boring divisions
Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust
The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles
Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill
Indifference pooled in pits and camps
The institutional social indoctrination
The honor and killing to expose shame
The violation and dishonor of moral fabric
For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values
Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit
Confessional secrets of only what lays within
A torment watching witnesses, all dangling
Marxists calls ships to stow ashore
Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit
Invalid contracts awaits signatures
The white immigrants to be enslaved
All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor
Wage packages taken to pay for freedom
Humans bought and sold to be owned
Slaves yorked and counted as assets
Bounded to serve plantations and homes
A human, non human, a chattel, a slave
A debt ******* offended and *****
Untamed and made to obey a master
A falling global strings unturned
Tunes strumming hate, war and pain
Human trafficking, violence, inequality
Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists
Commercialism, zero hour contracts
For if we have no rights, I have none
For if we have no peace I have none
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
The flood of weekend fun
has ended -- its deluge
Of waves and love and friends
. . . as waves.
Persists, propels a new inspiration.
Inertia.
Forward.
Back to reality, to work,
responsibility.
To simple morning coffee,
once again,
That reminds me, simply,
once again,
That all these forms are my reality
There is no dearth
Of reality
No dearth
Of weekends
Of mornings
Of coffee
Of work
Of responsibility
Of friends
Of love
Inertia
Forms
Waves
Reality
No dearth
No dearth
Just fun
Just flood
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if it's even worth fixing,
The clock on my desk has been broken for too long now.
The hands have not move, have not touch.
But time hasn't stop,
And every now and then a second laughs at my clock,
A minute brushes its side,
An hour smiles at the stillness.
Years have passed and my clock has remained unchanged, unrepaired.
It is frozen in a moment of time,
Still in a bundle of memories,
Trapped in the infinity of the universe.
I wonder if it's even worth fixing a brokenness that makes you feel infinite.
I wonder if a life that could end is worth more than a death that persists.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
Sitting in the car
Waiting for traffic to move
The cold rain tumbling down the window
The drops collide into a single line.
Inside my father and I wait in the warm heat.
We probably just left to get pizza,
Or Chinese food,
A regular Friday night.
The sound of the radio hums softly in the background.
The soft rumbling of the engine.
The drumming of the rain.
Not a word is spoken
between my father and I,
Each of us just ******* up the silence.
Breathing peacefully.
Over the radio comes a song.
A little old, though well known.
Ee-e-e-um-um-a-weh
Wimoweh, wimoweh, wehoweh, wimoweh.
We both know this song.
Grinning we turn the radio up.
Singing along. Dancing along.
Um-um-a-weh.
With each beat of the drum
My father touches the brake.
Quickly, rapidly
Making the car ****
The car behinds us honks the horn
Making us laugh harder.
My dad persists.
Continuing in this child’s play.
Suddenly it doesn’t matter,
that it is pouring, or
that we are stuck in traffic.
It only matters that we are having fun.
The song ends.
The radio gets turned back down.
We return to our former silent state.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
Hi! The creator too is blind,
Struggling toward his harmonious whole,
Rejecting intermediate parts,
Horrors and falsities and wrongs;
Incapable master of all force,
Too vague idealist, overwhelmed
By an afflatus that persists.
For this, then, we endure brief lives,
The evanescent symmetries
From that meticulous potter's thumb.
7.6k
again, madness!
one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?
why?
must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:
“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”
no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!
your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.
the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.
here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>
But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:
*”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.*”
A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out
these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.
<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.
a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
A widespread condition
related to nutrition
is lactose intolerance
that is in essence
the inability to digest and assimilate
the milk sugar-lactose-the substrate
that is acted upon by lactase-
the specific enzyme
over a period of time.
This may happen suddenly
and generally
at any age most unexpectedly.
Lactose intolerance
is caused by the absence
of the enzyme lactase
that breaks down lactose
to the simple sugars-
glucose and galactose.
The condition may be
secondary, congenital,
or developmental.
Secondary lactose intolerance
invariably has its occurrence
related to a gastrointestinal infection
and its disappearance
is linked to the causative factor’s correction.
This type of intolerance-
(certainly a nuisance)
is reversible
if we are a bit careful.
Congenital lactose intolerance,
an inherited form of intolerance,
is a rare genetic abnormality
that one can unearth
soon after an infant’s birth.
This need not cause any fear
as it lasts only half a year.
Developmental lactose intolerance
also known as primary intolerance
is one wherein the enzyme synthesis
is progressively less
during childhood
and this persists into adulthood.
Gita Ashok
24/10/2011, 2 pm
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 4:58 AM UTC
What better human quality than generosity?
They say sharing is caring, who could disagree?
Sharing bread, sharing bed, sharing deep intimacy
Sharing souls, sharing hearts, sharing vulnerability
But a world without sharing is a world that stopped caring
Without care, love will fade and cause lack of compassion
Division of humankind, is what causes war of nations
Borders are border line, they impede freedom of roaming
Don’t you think it’s absurd how people will decide
How much they’ll share with you,
How much they’ll care for you
Depending on where you’re born or you reside
Whilst the truth is that we share - the same entire planet
Borders caused our division - and used us all as puppets
To get richer and be better than those outside our borders
Made us greedy, made us needy to increase our own possessions
Some might think sharing means - losing parts of what is yours
But where true love persists - all that is mine is also yours
Sharing doesn’t halve happiness; you’ll see it multiplies it
Possession is what grows greed and the bad weeds that surround it
Dec 15, 2021
Dec 15, 2021 at 5:26 PM UTC
I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.
I’m tired of the way she treats his gifts,
He’ll give her a boat and away she drifts—
I can’t help I didn’t give her enough
Now he sees her lying to him—he’s calling her bluff.
He puts bracelets on her wrists
His charity persists,
He puts old hats on her head,
She’ll soon be overfed
His gifts can’t harbor the ship wreck
And look I’m sticking out my neck
Perhaps I can’t afford her
My broke *** just bores her.
Perhaps it’s more than that,
Perhaps it’s under the hat.
Perhaps her head is so done with me,
That the gifts he gives are guilt-free.
Perhaps I’m loosing sight,
Of the things they have so right,
Maybe they’re cleaning horse **** holding hands
Perhaps that’s what’s turning on her adrenal glands—
Gold digger, shallow to a point
Fishing for meaning, Heaven please anoint.
I think I get it, somewhere inside,
You pompous shallow ***** go run and hide.
Surf or skate, and fall and break
The waves will crush you over-take,
And when the good get’s going and I’m out of sight
You and He, will shrink into the night,
And in your heart, Gold digger
My purpose is always Bigger.
Because you love me without cash
But you treat me like your trash,
I’ll probably get in a car crash,
Running him over cause’ I’m just so brash.
This I will confess,
Your heads a ******* mess,
Unless you give up the gold,
Your heart and mine will grow even more cold.
I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 8:02 AM UTC
All is NOT well in the grasslands.
The animals are fit to be tied.
The actions of the crafty wolves
Have left the rest of them horrified.
"How will we EVER be able
To keep democracy afloat,"
The antelope asked, "if the wolves
Don't allow us all to vote?
"In many sections of these grasslands,
Shameless wolves are doing their best
To hold voter registration
Hostage, keeping voters suppressed."
"They aim to control voter turnout,"
The deer added. "That's their hope.
Their sneaky ways to manipulate
Elections push the envelope!
“They stall and seek petty reasons
To take names off voting lists.
Fair and honest elections are
In jeopardy if this persists.”
"It's so close to election day,
Our courts are reluctant to raise objections,"
The buffalo said. "Some of the wolves
Are even running in the elections!
"Humph! They stole a Supreme Court justice.
Then they rammed another one through.
Now they're still suppressing voters.
What more damage will they do?"
"Winnowing down voter rolls!
Their strategies should be illegal!"
The fox chimed in. Looking around,
He asked, "Where is our dear friend Eagle?"
The absent eagle wanted no
Responsibility tied to her name.
She couldn't stop the out-of-control
Wolves, and hid her head in shame.
-by Bob B (10-19-18)
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
If I could,
I would pick up my ink pen
and drown an ocean into you
instead of drowning you in it.
Extract these rotting feelings
for the sake of your ignorance.
Carve scriptures into each delicacy of your brain
so you wouldn’t have to dwell in such misery every day.
Wire faith
to your blemished heart.
Imbue purity
to your sullied soul.
If I could,
I would write you through all depths of insanity
without any harm
so that your
mind no longer persists the thought of death.
There was a time I thought you were dead.
Only you were painted red
in a black and white world.
Like you have been walking barefoot on a broken road
your whole life.
Your demons imitate life
And life imitates the demons.
You are the one being tied down by invisible, nonexistent chains.
So unaccepting of help that has come for you
Watch
the sun touch the horizon
reach the meeting of sun and ground
and
Find further still,
The limits you would like to reach only run from you.
You have such a murderous tongue
for society
people.
But one day I hope to see you write yourself into existence
Rather than to let yourself drown in it.
Why has you dying become something so habitual?
Darling, death is not a friend of yours
Nor are you a friend of his.
But I know of your frequent dates with death
Tell me
Does his neck feel like happiness
And do his lips relieve you of your suffocation
Now
are you lost?
or are you found?
Do you recognize the irony
Of the most terrifying things happening in the most angelic places
Charm yourself upon that bridge
Whose lights light up the city in golden arrays
With a glazed look
you’d think.
In sadness seen go by
You are charmed by either war or hope.
These occurred robberies have taken much
But they left opportunity
Important people
And a moon in your window
A future that only you know the ending of
And a slice of the midnight sky.
So it goes.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
an all purpose cleaner response to the
how-ya-doing-question,
as my vibe unmistakable;
the hatred in the world directed at
MY PEOPLE,
is inexplicable, beyond reason,
a hatred raw and pure in the
tiny places we humans hide it, lest
our ancient linkage to an unreasoned,
embarrassing emotion, be revealed
but now revealed it is reveled,
as the freedom to despise is a
valued thing
is an ancient scar, now freshly wounded
and the two thousand year old accumulated, callused,
surrounding wafer thin, layered upon layer of
tissue,
wiped away
in utter disbelief
cleansed,
a different kind of impure clean,
“like” an ethnic cleansing,
traceless, whisked away in a wink of moment,
a goner.
like hope, prior sentient optimism
sentenced to life imprisonment and
this sentence, and this very sentence!
written finally understanding that it is
a punishment
far worse than the quick relief of death.
c’mon, how about a few “fukk you jew”
cri de coeur, heartfelt, genuine, pointless
hate
no, not I, no, not me,
spare me the pithy comments,
the pointless sympathy, glistening
like evaporating water droplets
before disappearing, I ask myself,
not
why they hate, why it persists,
for this I understand and accept
the foulness of what we are capable of is,
beloved,
as a secret pleasure, now secreted in torrents.
no, I ask myself,
why do I write poetry,
for it is as pointless as
the hatred directed at me,
from birth, till death,
and ever after,
the humanity of poetry
just another fraud
another reason
why this man cries in the bathroom,^
not from any shape of shame,
because poetry is pointless
in times of hatred, and now we
know, recognize, it is always
somewhere, nearby, always
present and prescient,
pointless hatred,
itching to be pointed at me,
makes for
pointless poetry.
To whom shall I point my poetry?
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 2:08 AM UTC
I. the smell of sad
odorless colorless like ***** similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s),
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
still stink
don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ****** your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I,
who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face
there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all
this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present***
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
The place was dangerous as hell; we had no business being there. It was a complex, composed of four immense structures, looming on the bluffs between Lake Michigan and a ghost town. I'm not sure which side of the fence brought forth more eeriness - the sight of four massive industrial skeletons was indeed an eerie one, but within the village that must endure it's haunting presence persists a dwindling heartbeat... and together they produced a heightened effect of slow decay - and that was what drew me in.
The place was magnificent day or night.
By day, we'd explore the groundworks while the light allowed us to admire the massive machinery, which by then had accumulated copious amounts of corrosion. All those dead giants, never to function again. In the spring time, beams of light would penetrate the ceiling above, caving in from years of stress sans stress tests. Even when the light was not shining through, one could make out where the beams have been because in their wake they left a trail of life. Up to that point in my life I thought that was the most beautiful scene I had ever seen - a thousand tons of old machinery, and a stubborn sunbeam poking through, incubating it's au natural industrialized chia pet.
By night, we would ascend to the rooftops of these four story horror stories and gaze up at the stars. Sometimes, when our ***** were feeling particularly swelled, we'd venture across the rooftops as if in some post-apocalyptic videogame. And sometimes when we were feeling a bit rebellious and artistic, we'd bring along some cans of spray paint and redecorate to our desire. Oh, and another reason the place reeked of death was surely due to it being a glue factory... wherein horses were killed in order to gain access to their foot-stuff. I was told by an unfortunate local that they'd bury the unwanted horse parts in big pits back behind the place... this man had told me that he fell into one while wandering around back there - nearly died trying to get out.
We knew the place was soon to be leveled, but we did not know when. Eventually I ended up moving out of state for a while, and alas, upon my return my childhood fascination was no more. shrugs... So it goes.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain
Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives
Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade
Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
i am _not alone_ you see?
for everything i see is me
the trees, the mountains
and the moss covered trees
without them i would not exist
nothing in this world persists
without you either... just be still
can’t you feel your cells are eager?
knowing just how much you grew
doing all those things you do
at all the perfect moments too
your energy leaves deep imprints
within the grooves of all existence
the fallen leaves can feel your truth
the sky forms colors pink to blues
just as your heart loves to do
the sun seeks darkness
to shine through
all you bloom
the world is
spinning
all for
you
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
Neat orderly lines of chairs,
Rattling biro pens in sweaty palms,
An echoing hall of icy airs.
Exhaling teens failing to stay calm,
A balding figure pouting sternly,
Glares over nervous beings.
Announcing the rules that concern me,
Gulping down that sinking feeling.
A monotone drill bellows out,
I open my paper to 1A.
Oh Christ, what is this all about.
Questions so vague, I don’t know what to say.
This theme remains to continue,
Frying my brain, gnawing at my wit.
A piercing doubt seeps through,
for the rest of the exam I sit.
Seconds to minutes, minutes to hours,
Developing the skill needed to cope.
But my heart persists to cower
Falling lower, as if on a slope.
A bell calls out to signal the end,
I place down my pen somehow.
“How’d it go” asks my friend,
“Alright, double maths now!”.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Self Worthlessness is a completely,
temporary phase of human maturation.
It persists within the passing ignorance of youth,
And fades with the realization of eventual
adult wisdom gained over time.
The suffering within the journey,
Builds character and worth.
It's earned, not a birthright.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
Fear and uncertainty
are the bane of humanity
poison to the populace
yet, with knowledge
they can be conquered.
But tamed social schemes
proposed by powerful people preying
on those who feel powerless
are detrimental to all human beings.
So, in the face of the unknown
my brothers and sisters
accept the enslavement
giving in to the higher force
that does not exist.
Faith persists
And flourishes
in the realm of fear
and uncertainty.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Their hearts beat together as one perfect being
they are so engulfed in love even though they are teens.
They peice together, the halves that make the other complete,
their love burns bright in a passionate heat.
Their love persists even after so long
he still writes her those ballads, those poems, and those songs.
They have been together through heaven and hell,
and today to their children their story they tell.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 4:46 AM UTC
Three hearts for thee divided,
Lust battles with duty for attention,
Making waves that drowned your cries,
Yet you persisted.
Three loves became one,
Your heart the sole victor,
To you go the spoils,
And yet you persisted.
One heart's love is yours entire,
Overworked and overwhelming,
Wounded soldiers make terrible bedmates,
And yet you persist.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC