"pertains" poems
I'm so passed overthinking
My overthinking over thinks
The thinking I'm overthinking
To the point I'm thinking over
What's over thought and I thought
I was over this
Just didn't think it over enough
dilemma dilemma
yeap
Hold on we're in for a bumpy ride
Airwaves collide
I'm pretty sure we've been here before
I'm confused
What was the thought
Somewhere amongst this chaos
I forgot the original thought
Now I'm overthinking
A thought that can't be found
Wait wait
Oh yes I remember now
The thought was simply
Peanut butter or jelly
On the last piece of toast
So both
Or one
But which
Rock
Paper
Scissors
How do I answer this
It's an impossible equation
1+1 is good
1+the other is good
1+2 makes 1
But I wanted to share it with you
So now there's not enough
Either way
So what do you prefer
Before my brain cells implode
Giving up on the hope
I'll ever make a decision
That will justify the reason
Why I'm overthinking
What to feed you for breakfast in bed
Maybe just coffee...
Wait which brand?
How strong?
More or less sugar?
Too much creamer!
**** it I'm going to work
Everything *****
When over-thought thoughts
Become thoughts we've been over
Overthinking themselves
Into non-existence
And I forget how
I started this conversation with myself
Or what it no longer pertains to
What was I talking about again?
Oh yeah do I have everything
What did I forget
Wallet
Keys
Phone
Socks
Shoes
Pants
Shirt
Necklace
Hat
30 minutes later it'll remind me
I woke up hungry
Couldn't decide what to feed myself
It's too late, I'm late for work
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 1:59 AM UTC
How tenuous this grip we have, how slight our hold remains
When all around loud braggards boast that power now pertains,
We see the banner headlines splashed across our daily rags
And redneck demonstrations cleans the streets of Spics and ****
When blood runs in the gutter as the battons rise and fall
And whilst taking tea in style the filthy rich ignore it all.
The blonde leader of our nation struts, postulates and brags
While the rest of us skive off around the corner smoking ****
Our kids ingest confusion as they loiter on the street
Unknowing our delusions make illusions held, replete.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our hold remains
As our allies shower cold distrust convinced our fault inflames.
What chance of clear redemption, what remedies revive
When truth is lost to darkness can our honesty survive?
Reputation cut to shards, confidences ******
That leaders of community no longer hold our trust
When white is caste as black and then to green and then to grey
And sanity refuses pontification one more day.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our holds remain
As twilight turns to darkness caste against a larks’ refrain.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON, New Zealand
25 July 2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
Salty air kisses my face in the darkness of the night
only the distant flashes of light
make the waves glow, the illumination of a calm moon nowhere in sight
the early autumn air rushes across my exposed skin
the lapping of the waves, mesmerizing pulls me in
warmth of a running engine purring under my feet
the cold metal roof becomes my seat
the black backdrop of the sky my ceiling
chilled hands feeling the light raindrops running over my palms
peaceful, unnervingly calm
as the storm rages on
every bolt of lightning unique and spontaneous
struggling to find something in my life that pertains to this
humbling feeling of isolation and solitude
i'd love to say i thought of you
as the low thunder rumbled seeming to run across the sea
to these very feet
but i'd be a liar and you'd feel significant
we were simply flashes of lightning, nothing different
blazing a night sky with our spectacular glow and intensity
flashes of memories
never striking in sync or together
i never understood the weather better
then how well i feel it at this moment
i was lightning in a bottle, you were never meant to hold it....
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
#
Inside
of
my
head
Entombed
is
a
B R A I N
Can’t
shake
this
feeling
That
it’s
not
the
same
Infected sickness
Covered with dull pain
A rabid werewolf
I’m trying to tame
Almost off the leash
I tug at the reigns
Hold on with sheer will
Have nothing to gain
My efforts; A joke
Fighting a freight train
Through grit teeth I smile
Demeanor I feign
Failure coming soon
My life, one more stain
Lost
sight
of
it
all
To
what
it
pertains
I
am
sinking
down
Spinning in
the drain
An
endless
battle
Forever
the
bane
Of
my
existence
No longer I’m sane………
#
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now,
trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you
and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul.
I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side.
I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life.
I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you.
My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore,
for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands,
and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms.
I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore.
I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me.
Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Why is it so hard for me to love myself?
Things that I see in others
I see with such admiration,
but when I see myself,
it's as if I've become blind.
What I know of so surely as good
is somehow bad as it pertains to me,
and what I recognize as existing in someone else
suddenly becomes unrecognizable within myself.
I focus so earnestly on my feelings for you
and for them
and for everything, everyone, every cause around me;
so, then, why don't I focus on the same
for myself?
How easily can I tell
a woman abused that it wasn't her fault,
that she should bare no shame,
yet somehow, all the absuse that I suffered,
I was the cause, I am to blame.
I know they say, whoever they is,
that you can't love anyone till you love yourself,
but most days I feel I love everyone
except for myself.
And it's truly strange,
because it seems to come in waves,
and now that I'm toying with the idea of
loving again,
I am struggling to wade in the riptide.
I can't drown in you if I can't stay afloat,
I can't swim with you until I find myself
(a life boat).
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
Hey, look at me.
Skin shown, cleavage down to my toes.
I know how to make them look,
I can make them want.
I'm the heart-breaker,
Twirl you around my perfectly manicured finger,
I know how to breathe.
I know how to ******
I'm the girl everyone wants to be.
Perfectly advertised, desirable.
Beauty, intelligence
All pertains to me.
Who am I?
I'm every teenage girl, who
Has no self-esteem.
Who lies, cheats, and manipulates, just to be seen.
And I have a question,
Still want to be me?
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 8:16 PM UTC
a voltage feeds my mind
like that of a brief rainfall
where there is an asterisks
of insignificant social commentary
whose reality pertains
to disproportionate events
whose commission
makes a profession out of trivia
which is no more ******* durable
than accumulated dispersion of adrenalin
that of a psychophysical explorative
exploitation of unrealized
perpetual fermentation
that seethes with the singeing smell
that accompanies its lie
those demanding untruths
that lock each and everyone
in a burning prison of panic
a prism of unfocused
visionary liberation perhaps to some
the realization of the cosmos
that lives within the poets interior
a mighty roar of space
waiting to be filled
with visions of future worlds
of future social commentary
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
Time is money
money is time
So when they say it takes money to make money
They mean it takes time.
We all get the same amount daily
Personality gives quality
Because no one can survive selling off white canvases
portraying the self
to receive currensy
Gotta keep ths bar raised
Above and beyond what we call minimum wage
You gotta sell yourself in order to receive a fat check on pay day
Meaning understanding that wealth
Pertains to ones health
Properly known that to diet right heightens stealth.
Mediation nourishes the soul
Hydrating, purifying the flow
Keeping busy to stimulate the brain
Always on top when ignorant folk do or say anything
Its plain to see
Finding yourself includes paying off a bunch of fees
Some say taxes but its really adversity
Cause nothing worth having in life ever comes easy
Best way to succeed is to merely just be me
I can only speak for myself, cause its my world, my industry
My mind cant escape to retrieve too much of another mans mysteries
Ill burst like a bubble
My mind is that fragile
But ill forever help those in need with any one of their battling struggles
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
alas, i've heard it asked: how can we
write poetry after Auschwitz?
i don't know. and prose? i don't know: gone mad
the whole world implodes and dips its dove's foot into my purple brow:
in a dream, ink erupts from under my dirt encrusted fingernails
and it is the transubstantiation of my rainbow stained blood,
and the void was flooded:
what's a word? more than i—more than i can show.
how did they write poetry after colonialism?
after other slaves and other genocides?
i don't know. Rimbaud traded in slaves, and, before his fury,
wrote masterpieces... perhaps its obvious; a bad pun, to help us cope,
—he even left the path to his divinity,
but all this has nothing to do with anything—.
perhaps every genocide needs its herald poets.
and the rest, how did they write? i don't know.
perhaps it was not their concern;
they desired to write, and there, they did not give way, and so
were right.
and is it the same with us, as we write
through the screams of the however many millions coming from Congo
and from however many other scenes similar? i—
perhaps i do not need to know,
perhaps, in fact, i cannot write poetry.
if i'm to try, it pertains to me to be of use in case this comes to a fight.
and life, if life is drama,
then there will always be roles:
there will always be the part of the villain that needs playing,
an immortal space to be filled by actor after actor,
we cannot stop them, we cannot stop them;
our enemy is a hydra's head!
the task, then, is to re-write the script!
ad lib won't cut it!
cast away your hope, boredom and wonder:
we'll need fire and a pen mightier than a golden sword,
and softly spoken words that can split history asunder.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
Fearless lovers of the night,
Ruled by everlasting hunger,
Inseparable like life and death.
God's glowing
White eye watches them,
But innocence and guilt
Are of no importance.
Judgment only pertains
To the fruitful fluid
Your body harbors,
A delicacy.
Their fangs will
Free you and I.
I am beholden
To them.
Their fangs will
Free you and I,
And the night
Will become
Our playground.
Originally written 12/6/08
Revised 11/19/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
I met a man
who found monsters in the mirror
rather than himself
and for the first time
i felt as if i could give everything
and hold back at the same time
and this man would understand.
There was no pressure,
no expectations,
just time and patience and comprehension
that verbal confirmation of demons
was the only thing that made sense to us.
I have only known this man
for days
but his soul says years.
I have this weird theory
that some people are drawn to each other
because their atoms were near each other
when the universe was created.
Now, i am uncertain if this pertains
to him and i
but his friendship comes easy
and his words even easier.
I've told him about struggling
and how i am expected to be strong
but he told me
we can't all be strong forever.
Not even Atlas carried the weight of the heavens
for all eternity.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Here I ponder empty hearted
Seems as though I remain ********
But this word is controversial in its essence
Politically incorrect malevolence
Because of what I speak pertains to delay
The thoughts inside my head retrace this time of day
And even though the wheel spins and spins
I am left in the same place where I begin
To trace and trace
Over again
At this time of day I remain hidden
I'm struggling now
These words to no avail
Youll never receive them in the mail
Word to the wise, here is your token
Do not put forth words of actions you have not yet spoken
Because if you loved me you would have never left
Me
here
alone
in this time of day
for lack of better rhyme
and it is to late to fix what you have broken
Yet you said it
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 5:15 AM UTC
Rasta seh **** gone. Rat tek im place.Or when power leaves, the scavenger succeeds.
Roots man seh blood follow vein. Or blood is thicker than ****
Greedy choke puppy. Or greed ultimately ends in tragedy
Man walk. Dead watch Or death comes at unexpected times.
As close as *** and commode.Or a close friendship.
*** done.Fun done Or goes a fair weather friend.
Old firewood easy fi ketch. Or old wood lights easily (Pertains to old ex lovers who still have feelings toward each other).
Day brok one, one. Or, One day then the next (Time changes all things).
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
sitting there, looking pretty
i can't help but wonder
starting to feel a little witty
hope i don't make a blunder
eyes lock, and you beckon me closer
and of course
hope you don't think i'm a loser
in your delirium, giving me the source
fingers touch, electricity courses through my veins
my eyes go wider
as i look down and confusion pertains
who the **** gets drunk on apple cider?
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 12:31 PM UTC
My memories is going in and out like a daze.
The brain is complicated like a maze.
Yet intriguing in so many ways.
Images come and go, some usually stays.
I went from young to old so many days.
Time, I would never thought to embrace.
So much pain is written on these chains.
Only little change could really be explained.
Maintain and preserve the brain remains
Explain the nerves that’s surrounding my veins?
Maybe I’ll just refrain that question it pertains.
Locked in my skull where my brain is contained.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
It lies in my blood stream
Flowing slowly though my veins
cloudy vision, thick blood, to my heart it pertains.
Following the path as if set in stone,
haunting me to the core,
haunting me to the bone.
My hearts been palpitating since the moment we met,
since that first gentle touch, and that kiss of death.
But I’ll suffer an eternity if it’ll feel like this,
You’re my lovely poison, my toxic bliss.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
its been awhile
since i took a brush and swirled it in paint
a representation of my emotions swirling my brain into mush
each drop of hue into the other is a cataclysmic thought
each one carries the determination of destruction
i mix and let my head do the work
churning, a broken clock
i make something horrendous
death contamination
glass breaking skin
and i wonder
how they see color
on this canvas that pertains to my soul
when all my eyes see is black and white
a wither flower
hidden pain
and a depression unseen
not even
in inevitable hues
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Grieving at the gravity that pertains my
Open mind, reality is messy but I except
Driving in a single lane...
I'm a singular life time of experience
And when I leave this undertone of reality
I know that this is singular
in existence.........
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
This feathered quill with fluted nib stands idle in an idle hand and a man with little time to spare,despairs of flowing from its point,a point to make,a case he cannot state.
It is late the ink has bled,I am being led to some conclusion,propelled to see a page, unwritten not by me but by the elements.
Underwater I breathe air,a little trick I found when underneath the earth and being ground, they thought into fine dust,the fire was just a place to warm my bones while the winds sang songs to me in dulcet tones.
And still the quill sits silently as if begrudging me a moments rest, it would be a feather in my cap if only I could slap another word out of its tip,but no letters slip to form these things,it seems that silence only brings me emptiness,even less than that when words within are crushed and flattened by the fattening of worms that squirm and hold me in their coils,and any words there were are spoiled,deleted,secreted quietly and forgot about.
In the tomb without a light, this ink is but a link to further things to think and if only I could force this quill to spill something.
Underlined in red and on the tombstone up above it said,
'here lies within a man so thin
and yet so thick
his quill
a magic stick
his ink
a skating rink
Magic couldn't save him'
But this is of another page when reached upon a ripe old age and suitably I shall erase that which pertains to me.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
been awhile
since i took a brush and swirled it in paint
a representation of my emotions swirling my brain into mush
each drop of hue into the other is a cataclysmic thought
each one carries the determination of destruction
i mix and let my head do the work
churning, a broken clock
i make something horrendous
death contamination
glass breaking skin
and i wonder
how they see color
on this canvas that pertains to my soul
when all my eyes see is black and white
a wither flower
hidden pain
and a depression unseen
not even
in inevitable hues
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
The *** of a rose is fluid, and pertains to no one.
It curls, and pulls lucid around thorns and dark mahogany bark,
You may be blessed, and see her red face turned to face the sun -
or she may crawl in the undergrowth, shrugging off the *** you gave her and show her floral palms to the dark.
We all desire her velvet powder petals.
We all wish to do as we did as children, and take a hip
between our fingertips -
And crush the sweet, sticky sap from its vessel.
But leave her be, and let her petals rot where they fall
or next year she will not show her face at all.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 6:54 AM UTC
after twenty years, my life is still embryonic:
i guess it pertains to the self-same me to be tragic and comic.
by this age, Rimbaud had already renounced poetry, leaving
in fury shattered instruments of alchemy and sublime scrolls
from hell, scrawled impeccably in drug-infused-blood and divine
protest, depicting beatific visions of love, infinite aching bodies
and disordered senses;
by this age, he had already heeded the call of adventure,
known destitute poverty and absolute ecstasy, triviality
and magnificence,
and was bound for an obscure exploration, marriage,
trading in slaves
and was past half way to a tedious death.
but what have i seen? and what is this?—merde!
after twenty years, my life is still embryonic:
i guess it pertains to the self-same me to be tragic and comic.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
You know why poetry matters to me?
Do you think this is all you can see
that this skin and bone pertains to be,
this is mouth and voice and identity
and ego and consciousness, this is me?
Though i am fallible and i am naive,
and i wear my heart upon my sleeve.
There is more to me that my face and speech
There is more to me than you can even reach.
There is so much to hear from the works of Ghibran or Neruda,
Or Poe or Elliot, Dickinson, or Plath.
And words from poetry is like sinking into a hot bath,
its like a dance in warm rain,
its like standing in the middle of a hurracaine
My words are not easy to speak
so i spill them out on pages of white sheet,
and they are hurt, bruised and frustrated
and its mostly about people i have dated.
And I would like to thank my past for its hard work and dedication
thanks to you my suffering became, my inspiration
Poetry is an art, a placebo, a cure, that i can 'do'
for i don't need no pills or physical freedom when i am blue
I simply find a safe room inside my head
and sit and write as i cry my tears in my bed.
These words are majestic and dance a ballroom waltz and trot,
these words are shameful, and ***** and seriously ****** up 'for-me-not's.
This is My moment, this is My silence, My ****** fears
This My rapture, My beauty, My steadfast tears,
and all alone a page they are written for one and for all,
and i hope desperately you can feel them and hear their call.
They are unique and potent, and deadly and insane,
for a wrote them at times when i had loved in vain.
And i started writing to find a way out,
of my life, my hurt, to let me quietly scream and shout.
These words are my breath standing on a canyon side,
these words are my juice, my burn, my life, my ride.
This is my love, my pain, my heart, my song,
its everything i did right, and all i did wrong,
its the moon, and the stars, and its the world in a day,
and it helps me to forget, forgive, with words i can't say.
There is something inside me stronger than my voice
and poetry helps me when i don't have that choice.
It's like a firework wishes to explode and i can't contain the heat,
and there are bullets are forming in my layrnx,
and there is tidal wave coming from my feet.
It's my labyrinth, my misunderstanding, my heart-fuckin-break
it's my reflection, my questions, my wrath and my poisonous (Garden of Eden) snake.
It is my wanton lust, my passion and my unbridled perfect sin
It is my partition, my isolation, my grief, my inconsolable twin.....
It's my everything i am not when i am on the outside,
It's everything i am, even those parts i can't hide
It's everything i am.
It's everything i am not.
But, poetry matters
It's the very part of me.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Getting the words right is never easy. Not in the slightest. And don't think that this only pertains to lay people - politicians, artists, journos, writers, you name it, find it hard most of the time. Even if it seems they're getting theirs right, talking the talk, spinning a story, telling tales, saying things - well, they're just bullshitting. You and themselves. For not a single person in the world at any given moment knows exactly what they are about to say, what should be said - or rather, left out, which is more important. Once you've opened your mouth and let the words slip, they're gone, living a life of their own. Out there to haunt you.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC