"pinpointing" poems
My dreams whisper sweet things
And surreptitiously speak to me
My waking words are rote and empty
-spilling with hypocrisy
Yet their comforting embrace
Simply bring smiles to my face
Filling my mind while I'm asleep
They send messages lined with silver That vanish when I wake
To bring about a dull and listless form Who is shaping my last mistake
You see I wake in a storm
Simultaneously feeling constrained
To my bed
I can't get up while there's no filter
For the rush of noises in my head
If there's a difference between
What you know and what you believe Then why is it not as easy
To imagine my reprieve
Why can I only experience a vivid life
While I sleep
Then once again wake up
To this Fear Doubt and Anger
Choking me
Invoking me by pushing buttons
Of their endless promises
To for certain be found in youth
While my vision is livid sinning
Contemplating and pinpointing
Who too close is uncouth
You sit there and feed my veins
An explanation to your lies
With all the compromised
Washed up water
Memorized methods
Coping mechanisms
While it's your heart that remains
Aloof
Then sit there in desperation
Reiterating as if you know
The deep introspective answer
When any fool can see your wisdom
Is wrought in the vanity
Of a talented dancer
If you lost the truth of sanity
Would you retrieve it for ten cents
Or would you search inside
Before hiding from the confines
Of a necessary moment
I'd rather die or sacrifice my life
Before cowering from what's hidden
The message so raw
That counts your flaws
Like there was some proof
In what is missing
But ultimately I guess
It comes down to the small decision
The chip on my shoulder
That became a boulder
When I reached out
For my inner vision.
So while I feel so disparate and alone
In the trenches losing my senses
Will I be the hero or be the villain
Will I let the poison make me it's toy
Or take the penicillin
*Some days my life feels as heavy
As that last breath left over
From how loudly I shout
But I guess a general synopsis to you
Of how I sometimes feel inside
Is a decent first step to waking up
While I'm down and out*
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
Dagger buried in the depths of my heart,
pain seeping out of every crease causing of an eruption of tears.
Consistent manipulation into giving up my hopes,
A conning of my inner treasure.
Mend the broken pieces of my emotions,
the scattering of my feelings,
shredded apart because of a stolen hope.
A borrowed courage to believe that I could be loved.
The right to know that a heart was destined to belong with mines.
The privilege to smile without reason.
Pinpointing the flaws of my love,
questioning where does it become “too much”?
Torn apart from the inside,
a decaying courage to try,
denying myself of the experience to fall,
pain accumulating with every ignored cry,
every plead pushed to the side.
A vacant space now occupies the nucleus of my emotions.
They withered away with every disappointment and tear.
So everything within me dies,
(Oh, how bitter the feeling)
in hopes of a rebirth.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
Out of red concrete stands an abstraction
held out in space and in isolation.
Posit a location, Pierre
I'll be there to where you be.
But from the ground of the cafe
the distance becomes separated by unity:
point A to point B
pinpointing the heart of reality
for what was once 'to be' now stands 'not to be'.
A pre-judicative attitude always leads
from 'being' to 'non-being'.
Where is the comfort in
trying to rest
between Nothingness?
While negating in
A sleep while asleep?
Am I not self-aware through self-consciousness of
'The Existence of a Nonexistence Existing in Existence'?
How can there be Nothingness if before Nothingness
there is a Consciousness?
There is a Consciousness! From Being!
From a non-being being Being!
Thus, don't premature judge and expect the "expected"
Expect the unexpected
and save nonexistence from non-existence;
from "being" to "non-being"
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 10:09 PM UTC
Insouciance first fall
we took the night half-illuminated
dreamy stereo sketchy static
through ear’s round bell
smile we owe it
slanted, bendable light moon
becomes another genre
to listen lilt
even before methods of lip
procure shaded meaning cohered
on a closed door – opened
finding a semblance of Sun
there, veiling
a traffic of cirrus
in the elongated road
of blue skies
it was time
to point-source a home
taller than grass in Summer
pinpointing scenes to exact
a long divide and make it
by punishing it post-peak,
let it drift with unrelenting
quickness
past mouthed rivers and from
the lessening fog
of the same morning
i
will puncture
it true, eyes set forth
into your absence
*you’ll
bloom
you’ll
bloom.*
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
Mondays in Van Nuys:
velvet morning, bee stings,
and medicating angels
wrapped in mesh,
at the scene of a fugitive motel,
swimming towards
*** and misery.
Nicotine lizard
fresh from film school,
and his molten young
interceptors
with corduroy legs,
scouting for girls
any way, shape, or form,
pinpointing them
in alphabetical order.
Flashing red light means go:
pretty Eve in the tub,
lit from underneath,
she sun shines,
her back to the prehension
from a survey of hands
and power tools.
No tan lines,
the boundaries of
this celluloid garden
begin at her knees
--a fleshprint,
start the Van de Graaff
and watch as she reels
the far faded whispers
of carnal quicksand.
A smell of peroxide and sweat,
her constant freezing
and thawing
totally crushed out,
the dark don't hide it.
Candy Bar
--it's not her real name,
but she smiles like
she means it,
lying is the most fun a girl
can have without taking
her clothes off.
Once again
the week gets lost in repeat:
a certain smile,
a certain sadness,
look on the bright side,
this isn't happiness.
Oct 10, 2022
Oct 10, 2022 at 11:35 AM UTC
his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing
i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth
my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand
i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks
galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in
freckles.
like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise
you only crave what you know cannot be.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
*Bewildered and haunted through flashes of memories that relive themselves
I sit and ponder and look into the sky
there is no pain greater than been lost in SELF
battling with a STRONG shadow called SADNESS
she stalks and haunts and bring you moments of agony
she comes along with her sister ANGUISH
and they taunt you,
galvanising and pinpointing your mind to the PAST you left behind*
OH SADNESS!!!!!
*have you not rendered men a roaming wretch for years?
are you not content with the tears you have drank from your millions of subscribers?
are you not pained because of happiness and her many gifts?
when will you leave the vulnerable ones and stop feeding on their weaknesses?
for how long will you continue to taunt MEN with their horrible past and perceived failure?*
*You are hopeless and weak and so you feed on people's misery alongside with your heartrending sister called ANGUISH
Leave us alone,
for we do not want to commune with you
you are meant to die alone,
but you have garnered so many souls as your followers
reminding them of their most terrible past
conjuring pieces of AGONY
and feeding them with misery's venom
you are a witch SADNESS
and you dwell in the dark
you mesmerise us with beautiful tragedies and allure us into your cavernous seeking kingdom*
*ARISE
eschew sadness
before she infects you with her incurable disease
SADNESS has no home
and so she roams*
Ovi Odiete© 2016 All Rights reserved.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
a gas pedal pressed all
the way to the floor
passing all of the lights & not feeling
your heartbeat in the flicker
a quick approaching bend
(& i'm so sorry but)
how i wouldn't slowdown
the split second where time freezes
& my life flashes before my eyes
seeing a worn out repeat of
you walking away
my name rolling off your tongue
one last time
so i can hear it fade out
pinpointing the moment
i completely lost myself
chasing you but
running in place
while time speeds back up
praying in the debris
that there's a parallel universe
where you stayed
these permanent footprints
facing away from me
that show up in the pavement
wherever i go now
every single night
you were in love with me
& the accompanying bottle
the haunting resemblance of
your promises to me
in poems about him
how i've got nothing else to bet on
because you were my all in
this fire you've started
in a forest that was never yours
how much time we would have had
if we measured it in the moments
i loved you the hardest
my apology for
missing you this much
even though you're still here
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
A horse rests...licks a desert rose, exposing
denture-like teeth.
Slowing its voluptuous space to the courting
of flies.
Its Grecian-black olive eyes, poke their pits
in a pinpointing gleam.
A chancing apocalypse mid-stride...allots dust
the fire it so craves under the sun.
As it settles...the horse is dismounted, and
let loose--a disorienting beauty ensues.
As if nature could part wild ways...onward...
onward...where went the beast...where went
the man?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
Monet
could have painted
that sky
could have
done the clouds
just so
have got the colours
in that way he had
but Monet's dead
and I guess God
stepped in
and did it all
Himself instead.
There was that time
she and I lay
gazing at a similar sky
similar colours
but that was
summer though
and a far warmer clime
and she said things like
I love you
and we were young
and knew little
about what scientists say
of sky or clime
as we watched the hawk
flap its wings
but remain stationary
its finely attuned eyes
pinpointing prey
on that warm
summer's day.
Now it's a winter's sky
and chill
but as I sit
and gaze
I think of her
still.
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 4:18 AM UTC
Our rabbit tails flicker
on the edge of the heat-rush
like making love,
a viciously tender blush.
Here we are, Running,
from useful death;
our needed kindnesses.
Nature’s necessary provocation,
starts the ride,
ensuring death for an ensuing life.
Our blood is fast and heated,
releases and builds the tension,
in ligaments, Quick enough
but strobing the scut.
We are also the foxes
and so forwards we must follow it,
just as the time follows
the seeping wisps on the horizon
of the un-risen sun.
Come live with us and dine,
so we may die, when we need to.
There is a reason for your greed.
Follow those sparking tails
pinpointing life
in the living grasses.
Smell the heat
through the dewy stems
and be what must be done.
Feed your children of every description
to end, a forgotten bone milestone
but with endless input.
Become the prey of your own actions.
The grass takes your meat,
fluffs it up with sun,
for the rabbits
each and every time, it’s time to.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Drove away, broke the breaks
Closed my eyes... where am I now?
Perhaps I've sailed
too close to the sky.
Rowing and rowing,
unminding the splinters.
To bleed just a little
And bleed more and more.
If I'd fly an airplane,
I'd explore the seas
To chuckle underwater
watching a submarine burn.
Went a little insane
or so I was told.
Said they'll build me a fortress,
but they'd call it an asylum.
They'd always visit
when most are fast asleep
Running back and forth
as their tails touch the floor.
I love how their eyes glisten,
clustered stars in a black hole.
But they only saw me once
through the window on the door.
Freed at last!
Or so I thought.
They gave me shelter -
the finest they had.
Pinpointing I was happy
whilst their words deny
So mute the sound,
see how they open their mouths.
Maybe I was stable
so they let me be.
But the more I stay,
the more I drift away.
They may see the goodness,
but I only see the sins.
Crawled back to my asylum -
the place where I should be.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
the road gathers itself like a drained old woman,
hunched over rags, beneath the gloomy crag,
sintering as it nears the beach,
worn out through time, impoverished
it has become reflective in the chittering half-light.
Eviscerated by the pawing waves,
contradictory cracks like entrails, hanging out
crushed into solitude , it redefines its continuous retreat.
In the reductive shade
it circumvents the cove, its tarmac withered,
a battered host to foreign weeds.
Sunrise chides the posturing sky, the sulking universal remnants
vanishing in the fenestrated glare. In the near distance, air unravels,
the moving storm exhaling slips of cloud
rapidly swarming like furious flecks of phlegm-sneezed out in perpetuity
between heat and cold.
The road lies entombed beneath a scree, tumbledown stones and dust.
Ramblers and cars have sought and found
an alternative route. The moistened rubble creaks
as liquid gathers in its shifting heart, crawling out in rivulets-the rain
descending like spit,
emolliating the countryside, shifting dollops of fetid mud,
enveloping like a furious aneurysm.
Sea and land entrenched in conflict,
a war of attrition always won by seas, unleashing energy
of mindful apocalypse in the manner of a gentle sigh.
The gaping abscess of scarred promontories tottering
like feverish drunks. The mouthed obscenities of carnivorous
birds radiates throughout the cove pinpointing local
drownings encrusted with salt. Sea upon sea impose themselves
enviously on rampant shorelines feasting on sand and rock. Never ending!
Plunging ever forward like a barren plough, receding, only to
re-site its casual fury-implosion upon explosion.
The road in its sullen retreat
stumbles through narrow valleys speckled
with gloom; trees with yellow flowers
blooming in crinkled shadows,
deer leaping through high-standing grass, mincing
between tall thin trees. Loping down
into the cities, it becomes a tousled high street full
of immigrants, all yearning for the sea.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
Funny how some so called religious people
Judge and question some other persons' morals
when we know that they have their own questionable acts,
and some loop holes they tend, to hide
And behind those white curtains are stains of hidden immoral acts
that they unconsciously continue to hitch;
While they loudly brag the opposite, pinpointing negative qualities and attitude,
Instead of practicing what they preach.
While they quickly react with their narrow closed minds,
Tendencies and probabilities you can easily tell.
They are so sacred, prejudiced words so sacred
So solemn, image they project is so far from hell.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
Astronomical solitude
Pinpointing the proximity
Between you and everyone else
The biting cold the perfect compliment
To the warmth that never felt so lacking
It's the most lonely time of the year
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
so this is how we love
all goodbyes and apologies
and lips mapping freckle to freckle
like a cartographer pinpointing
places that deserve to be named
and remembered
so this is how we hurt
carving scars onto scars and
diving headfirst into every space
in the universe that would take us,
that would welcome our pain with
open arms and say, *there is more of that
here, come get your fill*
so this is how we heal
in the strangest of places, like unfamiliar
suns and mattresses made of feathery
limbs, we find rest and each other
and we learn to say *no, that is enough,
this is where our hurt ends*
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
lost ardor, long hidden beneath these initial wastes
pinpointing the mines and matters, estimations and worth
your excavation operating on the surface of my bereavement
without any evaluation of its dolorous costs or the extent
of these ductile veins, rivers through our subterranean natures
your shadow requirements, eroded and befouled
now, neither my eyes nor I much love your dark
epicardial secrets, projecting deposits of debris, the chloride fragrance
of our secrets, hidden fires underground; your love, all and away
digging, mining proposed new lovers out of us both; gravels and
pain and gas; ferrous exploration; uranium reclamation anew via
caustic layers of ore and deposits of once-flowing love
alloys of dead flowers and waste form my rocks
seething into scabrous life like bantling cacti after a lover has risen
such risks always require a proportion of love be livid, recoverable;
threads of passion dissolved in the complexities of the body
grains of unconsolidated minerals evoking love and potash
yes, secret metallurgists like you pose acidic dangers
to my soft endocardial things
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 12:59 PM UTC
is there a scale that exists, like the richter scale,
that shows how you shake up my world like
a cocktail shaker, where my heart is a liquid
conforming to the shape of the container,
and you stir up a storm inside of me, lock
me up in a cage in the midst of the storm,
and let me stay in here until the wind wears
me down until i am little more than an itch
on your back, an empty ***** bottle, a burnt
out cigarette, a tear on your sleeve, or the
remnants of the candle i lit in hopes of you
seeing the flickering flames inside of my skin
signaling help from the burn out, and now i'm
hoarding piles of dust to find remnants of you
in the ashes. i'm hoarding the rubble from the
earthquake you put my heart through, hoping
to find some flickering flame in the midst of the
chaos. i'd scale this earthquake at a nine, not
exactly pinpointing my pain scale at a ten, but
close enough to destroy everything in it's path.
when i stare at you, i see an earthquake and i
see the hands building foundations. it would
be the biggest honor to have my world shaken
and stirred by your very presence.
- kra
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
*Your location on this globe
Ceases to keep you from pinpointing a spot my heart-
Even though you're far off elsewhere,
Your stake on the beating in my rib cage reinforces that we are never truly apart.*
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
you see my honourable
rabbi,
i have this problem,
Sauron just keeps
igniting me...
i either buckle and fall
over laughing
on the second h of
the gemini -
the ** the woman bit,
or i am struck with
a need to catch my breath
(my vowels) ah eh:
exasperated,
surd-surfing: f k p c s t -
gargantuan waves of
effort... in genetics
you can say xy -
but that still makes no coordinate
sense, given the z-antics.
Alice looking at the H -
and when i wasn't looking
at the YHWH i swear i could
see a sun, a sea, a mountain -
quantum physics **** right there,
a melissa mccarthy punchline
on the ready.
yep... crude trigonometry central:
starting with sharpened cosine -
and then pinpointing on the Y -
convergent exponential...
plus: so little calculations
were involved.
i swear to god... mingle the latin
phonetic encoding with
the hebraic key,
and you can attest to seeing
a million 'allah'u akbar'
cockerels shout in simultaneous
detonations and
in a Solomonic guise... barely flinch.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
I saw a psychic
for the first time in my life;
it was horrifying.
She audibly observed
the tremendous pain in my eyes
and somehow picked out
the simultaneous emptiness and confusion
that I feel welled up inside of me.
She went on,
pinpointing my chaotic last four years,
me, struggling to find identity, and
looking for it in material possessions
and other people.
Telling me of my father's stubbornness,
and how that's not all I inherited from him.
I was scared;
because every word sputtered
exposed the innermost parts of me,
and spoke razor-sharp truths
to whatever it is that inhabits my core.
And she told me,
foreboding and omniscient,
I could overcome these troubles
if I find god again
and in that moment,
I felt that she might
be right.
But the worst piece of knowledge
she bestowed upon me,
was to stop looking for love;
instructing me to cease the search
that I've become accustomed to.
And I hate that
she's probably right.
And on the drive home from downstate
I prayed she wasn't,
because that would mean
even more years alone
with myself,
and I don't know
if I could endure it.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
You can hear the rain as it gathers
Soaked cosmopolitan soldiers in the gravel,
Complaining of urban trenchfoot.
Those stars on their hands, declarations of evil
Felt the roughed hands of homeless men
Asking, “where you gonna be next week?”
And other cherries of vagabond greetings
Of his situational pleasantries;
The kids couldn’t say:
Topics avoided are done so the loudest—
That old man who’s friends with the devil
Lying infirm, walking infirm, his only guests are strangers
I hear his didacticisms from long ago
Curtailing the copper snakes despite their promise of knowledge
Good or evil
Because life is too short to be more than just friends.
Everyone works at least one day on the jakes
At the desk at day’s end
At plaster fist on the rivers in tar
Where Rat-prophets have their
Schizoid visions peaking in fright
To a starlit bible-edge clatter and smash
Shaking and roiling, denimized
Words pinpointing you down
Assembly-lined out by the smirking madman
Capital, he says, capital, capital
Looking out on our heads graduated heads
Cap it all, cap them all,
Jagged and four-squared edge
Happy enough to dogpaddle in a maelstrom
Called Sallie Mae
And to forget ‘graduation’ means ‘to rise’
These ocean floors, dark and darkening.
Yet, his debt crushes him for lack of want,
Chicanery and shady deals
Mine’s a blessing, a burden of love;
The brochure is a better read—
Where am I going to be next week?
Recalling the difference
Between indebted and dead
Recalling the difference
Between a ton of feathers and that of lead.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
Sometimes at a loss for pinpointing my mood, I find myself scrolling the writings of Hello Poetry.
Like a dance, I sway and twirl, march and slide through your words, your emotions, that are bled and wept, chuckled and sung into poetry.
In a stumble, I fall back to the smallest treat, the shuffle button...
And I am moved by the movements of poetic symphony.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
and who would have thought that there would be such
certainty governing ι (iota), as to effectively stress it
all the ****** time? guise it in whatever pronouns
you want, either modern or ancient and if ancient
then bound to psychiatric theory - but who would have
thought that so much pinpointing was to be allowed
over ι? and yet there are hordes of people without
a clue as to who they are and what identity to rattle
the world with... pinpoint above the iota...
if it was absolutely precise, and if it was truly identifiable
with a great accuracy, i'd find people in shackles of
certainty, hardly deviating from that's already apparent
to them... but it's not the case... so presumptuous
to ascribe iota (ι) that sort of certainty when ascribing
it a holy pronoun status... there's hardly a pinpoint
about the iota, hardly any certainty, always the spontaneous
venture, and that's still bound to what aesthetician you
speak to...
ᾠ (oi)! wriggly serpent of
arabic in greek, wriggled in, subscripted, prefix: al-,
then the l'ah the l'ah, la la la... la la... mmmbop! handsome,
innit? kamoze... na na na na na na na na na na nah...
'ere *** d' 'otstepper... chilli chilli in sprechen dingo...
roughing up the woof downunder.
and wrote a surah about the byzantine defeat...
true up to the point of mongol and the mamluke...
for if not the serpent to teach man handwriting,
what animal? is not the serpent the jurassic spine
and our pause for thought? or what does predate
the discovery of dinosaur bones if not bonsai
morphed into welsh and chinese dragons?
exaggerations of sleeper's intuition collectively?
to bow, or say: prior: all things worthy of a palette -
then the revisionist meteor, then all things condemnable
and bound to excess - gluttonous eyes staring poignant as if
gnats stuck to venomous arrows with a thirst for st. sebastian...
for what audacity asserted that it was always to be so:
a pinpoint above ι? there was no universal agreement -
as is to say: a god of the omni realm will never consider
a peace treaty unless the people abide by the mantra om
and subsequently flourish... and what animal taught us this
wriggling? should we rewrite our stance basing all
metamorphosis from shouting to a hush and then compound
with statement: genteel reader away from the serpent
and haloing the worm, that too wriggles? it all depends which
aesthetician you speak to... if you speak to me,
i'll tell you this version of human history's worth of
soap opera.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC