"pitting" poems
Slipping and sliding
Back into the past
Foolishly buying
All the foolishness they've said
Stacking me against you
Pitting you against me
Does it hurt to stretch the truth
If the lie is so easy
Keeping us under lock and key
Mental Slavery
Under their thumbs
We're being kept
Simple pawns
In their game of chess
We take them at their word
This herd of talking heads
As we rely on every line
That we're being fed
Keeping us under lock and key
Mental Slavery
With the slightest of resistance
We feel we should fight back
But at our own insistence
It's ambition that we lack
So we follow along the path
Eyes closed to reality
Turning us against each other
Makes it hard to see
Keeping us under lock and key
Mental Slavery
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
The Serpent squeezes the mundane egg, for a moment in time,
…to begin the ages, turn the wheel, and so begin the rhyme,
The circus has commenced, a dancing, swirling motion,
…a pit of ghastly horrors, seen as a vast deep ocean,
…or celestial or cosmic, as some would have the notion.
Some of them were large, although some were also small,
…and grotesquely figured or disfigured, a scary monster’s ball,
…and trudging, stampeding, stomping or slithering down the hall.
There they danced, sang or prattled, where giants fought and where they battled, …thunder unto heroes rattled, with awful screams so frightening, and terrifying lightning!
Scaly, hairy or feathered, wet and fiery or weathered,
…conjoined, twisted or tethered, slithery writhing together,
Kingu and his wife, some say it was t’was his mother,
…his plan was war and strife, pitting brother against brother,
A ******* existence and so morally depraved,
…a state of sickly persistence, they found themselves enslaved.
Then abounding voice of heaven, that divided night by day,
…brought forth a princely king of Luke; the warrior Marduk.
Fourteen engaged in combat, the one against thirteen,
…and thus aligned with the ecliptic, at night they can be seen,
Sloshing in the Apsu, beaten with the club,
…slain and torn to pieces, cutting channels of their blood,
A north wind sent them to their places, fixed on Tiamat’s wheel,
…and the starry constellations, did Marduk bring to heel.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
I hate my body.
All my angles and lines.
And I hate them all
because of you.
What are we trying to accomplish?
Pitting body type against body type?
Why is it wrong to love
my bones,
if it's encouraged that you love
your curves?
I am healthy.
I eat every day.
My body is different,
why isn't that okay?
I get called
twig,
anorexic,
and sick.
But I can't call you
log,
fat,
or thick.
Don't tell me to gain weight,
and I won't tell you to lose it.
Why can't we accept that people are different?
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
So, what if I told you
reality is the dream.
Are you prepared for the
NIGHTMARE?
Do you want to wake up?
Yes, the key is to open your mind and wake up and become one of the socially conscious higher ups in the anarchy we call
Society,
But with great power comes great responsibility.
Honestly, do you believe in the prophecy that our generation can
RISE THROUGH ADVERSITY
Become the masterpiece that God envisioned when he created this tapestry of writers and athletes?
Actually, better yet
Do you believe in the ghost of the past that rest uncomfortably in it's sanctuary?
Are we the Golden Age or are we gilded
We're livid, vivid, driven toward a goal that looks more like a sign telling us we're going the wrong way.
A wicked testimony.
So we're faced with these two options
To wake up or remain dormant
To be a pawn or be a king
To live on our knees or die on our feet
And I don't blame you if you choose eternal slumber
Because we all love to sleep and it's ironic because that's what we look forward to to during each and every day we spend in this dream --
I mean, reality
But, if you choose to lay off the benadryl and take a dose of this "real world"
You may find that missing key you've been looking for.
Or, the glass can be empty and you find nothing but misery and insomnia.
Again, the choice is yours and even if it may SCARE you
Dying on your feet means you learned to walk.
Isn't that the first thing we learn to do?
So maybe our parents actually taught a life lesson
(to our extreme disbelief)
And do know a thing or two
But still, we are the iPhone generation
And they have no clue how to tweet anti government conspiracies and
scroll for hours on tumblr
So what do they know
For all we know they may still be asleep and in the same cheap hotel room as us
So is there to trust
When we dream of gamemasters loving torturing the lower classes and pitting them against each other in death matches?!
Take this match and spark the cowards
Bring light to the revolution and set ablaze the darkening towers
Let's have lucid dreams and rebuild the democracy
Dreams and reality become synonymous and merge into each other to form a new entity and we shall call it
GOD? YOUR MASTERPIECE!
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
Tell me am I love
or am I suffering
Am I stepping into the black
or into purity
So purity is white
and white is purity
Am I noticed for love
or projecting my suffering
hoping to be on stage
for all to see
Love is pure
Suffering is pure
Love is marred
as are flecks
pitting the whole
of suffering
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
keep the window open i cant stand to smell your skin, you are shivering. youre cold
(you tell me so (you want a response (i nod,)))
(but you are still cold)
*do you have any
fantasies?*
this halting voice heaves in my stomach pressing against the walls, making
me sick, the snap of your blinking lids a pickaxe to my temple. *i think about
fire
a lot. i think about forest fires.* filling the tank in a dead town, dark night quiet town,
the gas tank overflows (your nervous eyes in your sweating sticky face {your twitching gaze stroking the lighter in the glove compartment} dry dry lips {your wet tongue only makes them dryer})
breathing in her ear you say *tie me to the stake tight tight so rope burn sears my wrist,
burn me with the dry kindling,*
condensation drips down her neck, sliding down the arm. on the sidewalk in the pit of her shadow a puddle forms, wetting the wings of the unhappy wasps, joints twisted, the gaps in the exoskeleton show something bright, something bulbous, with forceps and needles it could be reached? its delicate skin pierced, oozing thick light (*do you have any
fantasies?*)
[*so there are two of me, right,
clones, equivalent beings but
individuals. some sort of sick
government secret. human ex
periments. its not important.
i grab my clone by the neck or
it grabs me, its not important,
the dust billows when my feet
skid, im choking, vision blurr
ing, i claw at my hands, we f
all, dust bursts into the air, m
y fist makes sick thudding sou
nds when it hits, bruising my
knuckles on the structural bon
es of my face, possibly breaki
ng the more delicate ones. im
straddling my chest and im s
pitting out the teeth that i di
dnt swallow. then the clones
**** im not really sure.*]
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
Ideas not people
rule the world,
competing for supremacy,
**********
Conflicting, waring
to gain the
upper hand,
control.
Virus like
as it spreads
through the population
Infecting all that come
in contact.
Ideas are insidious things,
once infected nearly impossible
to ignore.
Populations are
controlled by ideas.
Religious ideas, political ideas,
run gunshot
over millions,
pitting whole
populations
against one another.
The relative nature
of ideas is dependent
on the level of infection.
Where do ideas come from?
Who or what injections
them into
our releam.
Ideas make us
do things,
controls us.
Free will just an
illusion.
Ideas make
us behave as
they will.
Can there be
a unifying
idea that shows us the
way?
Would that just be
universal control?
Are our brains complex
enough
to see the
unifying
Idea when it
finally arrives?
Memes can lead us
into the future,
or undo it all.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
It’s the way she talks, the way she walks
It’s how her hair flows in the wind
There are so many things I don’t know where to begin
Her smile, saying it’ll be worth while
Her eyes that glisten with mischief
Her body and curves
It’s how she acts that gets on my nerves
And of all the people of the world
You are the one I fear the most
I’m so afraid you will take everything
Then unconsciously you’ll boast
It riddles me with fear
You spark a harsh light in my heart
Pitting holes within my stomach
Tearing me apart
And all because I’m jealous
Jealous of only you in this world
And whenever I look at you I think
I’ll never be enough
Poem after poem I write
Trying to extinguish this fright
But my insecurities keep me company
You set me on fire with your “light”
I’ll never get over this complex
This deep rooted thing of you
Feeling Inferior and worthless
No matter how many say it’s not true
Because thinking of it always makes me feel blue
All on top with the fact that I’m losing you
***What a pitiful mess
Just lay me to rest.***
-
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 6:24 AM UTC
Cotton is truly King ,--from Blue Ridge to Southern border , creator of fortune , remedy to pain and struggle , dividing--- pitting neighbor against neighbor , market afire funding Sheriffs and constable , alive and rampant among elderly , teenager , public official ......
King Cotton reintroducing malignant , corruption , nay from yesteryear at mercy of whip and chain ,slave and sharecropper , but to the gun , homelessness and the horror of merciless addiction....................
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
Despots.
History.
Replete
with those
who’d
control.
Hoist
their
views,
beliefs
onto the
masses.
Today.
Look
around.
Easy
to see.
It’s everywhere.
Manipulation.
Not militarily.
Technological.
Mind melding.
Brainwashing.
One way
or the
other.
Battle zone.
Monocrats.
As with
days of
old.
Battling
for control.
Technology,
waves of
influence
circling the
globe.
Altering
perceptions.
Rewiring
thought.
Pitting one
against the
other.
As with
the past
yet more
insidious,
dangerous.
Minds
in a
vice grip.
Addicted
to the
screen.
Unable
to let
go.
New despots,
same as
the old!
Feb 23, 2024
Feb 23, 2024 at 9:01 AM UTC
I’m bending over backwards, cracked words falling from my lips as I try to explain to you who I want to be. My spine cracks beneath the strain.
You turn every phrase I try to translate to you into some spiel, shoved into my face. You called me crazy for being a creative thinker.
The materialization of my existence bursts forth into vibrant colors, a catalyst sparking my unwillingness to become you, who “raised” me.
I still have scars from the lies you carved into my skin, I scratched their opposites on top of them to blot out the dark tendrils of your misery and replace them with my own faltering hope.
Burning and tearing trying to prove I’m not the monster you tried to make
Taking charge of my own youth, teaching my own self discipline to restrain the unfathomable hate I have what you’ve done
At 11 years old you had lora, your /new wife/ steal my diary when she kicked me out of my room to clean it. That night her, sara and yourself read passaged from it aloud and laughed at me.
You turned my brothers against me so I’d always be fighting alone, pitting us against each other like wolves, but I got kicked out of the pack.
I became a fire
Scorching pages of my life’s history till it was erased, retaining the anger of memories and bridges burned.
I was never the villain you played me out as, I learned all my swears from you. I learned all my negatives from the influence you provided. You taught me hatred
I was never the victim you tried to turn me into, maybe I thought I was, maybe I believed it for a little while. That fabrication was never true, never who I was.
You said I was your favorite, yeah maybe your favorite to tear down, your favorite to break.
I’ve figured out that people only try to gain forgiveness from things they’ve broken after they’ve messed them up past the point where those relationships can be mended, its proven with you, with my brothers.
You made too many mistakes to fix this, not with gifts, nor with promises that are broken before they leave your lips.
We share blood, I came from you, it seems my value dropped the moment I was born, and obviously you cant respect women enough to give your daughter enough of a chance to fight the world. So I forged my own weapons, sharpened my claws with the will to be better than you ever were.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
I try to will my hands to movement
but the energy that fails to stir them
is that of a dying spider
my hands are dying spiders
the weight of broken ballerina ankles rests on them
as one finger, one spindly leg reaches foreward with the fading pulsation of apathy and desperation
apathy pitted against desperation in a cage match thumping against the bars of my ribs i cannot funck fu k func function like this
i once saw a dying spider
she had been in the skylight for weeks
lights flooded the room and she floated down the middle
on a silver string, what skirts are made of for dancers
her legs slowly splayed as she turned so thin so light
in my head i heard played the last grand notes of swan lake
she landed her perfect pirouette to the end of her swan song
and dies to an admiring audience weighed of broken ballerina ankles
her spindly, skeleton leg reaches foreward
driven by desperation
slowing by apathy by starvation by stubbornness by fear
her legs curl unto herself
caging the match pitting apathy against desperation
she cannot fun...c..tio...n... like... this...
Silence falls on my eyes and creeps them closed as my hand
fails to reach the next letter
i desperately have to reach the next letter
but Apathy blinks and says
whats the point
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
Pusillanimous polecats
Practicing perfidy
Plan parties and
Parse probabilities proudly
Partially putting past
The paltry populace
Pornographic postulations
And potboilers
Pointing poisonous
Proclamations publically
Pitting proper people
To pathetic programs
Promising the penurious
More poverty.
Often posthumously.
Pitiful people plead
Putting need over posture
Putting parents out to pasture
Promising, but passing on
Proper placement of
Propriety and parity
Planting nothing for posterity,
Prizing prosperity
Politicizing with polemics
Post-mortems on politeness
Placing pandering
Higher in practice
By perpetrating
Practical party politics.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
You ****** her in front of me
And there's nothing I can do
You ****** her like Ted Bundy
When there's nothing I can prove
By hitting her
You're pitting her
Against us
Defenseless
She acts superficial and vapid
To better fit into society
The change is quite rapid
Now she has propriety
But in accepting this role
Her broken soul grows cold
Her hand she folds
To be given gold
Becoming manipulative and callous
This upsets the peaceful balance
She cures herself of her pain affliction
By turning it into a destructive addiction
And getting on the other side of infliction
You should be the one that is faulted
Yet you're the one that is exalted
Can't you see how this woman is on the border?
She definitely sees how you defend Rob Porter
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
the scared tittering
of turtle doves forced
to flap thru a peach wind.
as lusts blare their fresh
greens, to sweeten the scents
pitting against dens of flesh.
the unanimity of rise and entry--
driven to full ***********
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
I'm almost most certainly about to break
It's only a matter of time but I hate the wait
Holding that familiar panic feeling I can't shake
Leading to a heated, one sided, debate
Pitting good faith against bad take
They're getting more alarming at an alarming rate
Basically arguing that everything's but what's fake is fake
Completely oblivious, a bad trait if you know what's at stake
Because BAM, in a flash, I awaken at my own wake
"Excuse me, there must be some kind of mistake"
But I must admit, the casket occupant is concrete proof I'm far too late
©2024
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 12:07 PM UTC
This anger flows through my veins,
It's blackened hands reaching for my throat,
Trying to bring me down,
Only memories of you can hurt me like this
the way we were,
So young and naive that it hurts
But I've come to realize that,
Yet to come is the worst
A double edges sword of love and hate,
Pierces my soul and mind,
Inner peace is something I'm to far gone to find,
I'm binded, blinded,
Yet you still run underneath my tightly shut eye lids
Years come to pass, before I open my eyes again
Silent sins plaguing me for many a day and night
Never to plague no more
As they wither we hither the steel swung
no shield for defense, immense broad my blade shall be
Love for eternity with the clash of the sword meant to heal..
Follow through with no urgency, blinded like a master
Flow severs only hate; and with the cut comes a rose
others hope to raise the broadblade we've raised within ourselves
but to no avail, weve made it far
serenity for infinity
Pulled from the stone, cut into positivity
No.
I won't do this anymore
I won't have my heart, bleeding, and feeling
And falling on the floor
Shake me to the core, I'm signing
I'll never love again!
But if I do, I'll die, just make sure that I go down swinging
Pitting, me against myself
That's all feelings have ever done
I always get my hopes up,
A never blooming rose bud
Yet the sword strikes me,
I begin pouring blood
Yet the feelings that I feel,
Will never be enough
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
also known as a lesson in anatomy 2:
this is my heart,
it is both a metaphorical
representation of an oversimplified
concept of a highly intricate
detail
and
a thick ball of senew
which throbs to pump
blood through my veins
distributing oxygen and nutrients
to the backwater parts of
the clusterfuck known as my body.
sometimes I like to take it out and
look at it,
turn it around in my hand for a bit
before pitting it back.
sometimes I can't remember how the
arteries fit
so I just jam them in there
and its a real mess.
the thing is molding a little on
one side and kind of wrinkly.
think of an orange that's been hiding under a cabinet for too long.
they say when I person burns to death
the last part of them to turn to ash
is the heart, since its
so tough, the thing takes forever,
just sitting there in the fire.
I don't think that's true.
I think its the first thing to burn.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
I've started the death race
My foot on the pedal, not the brake
(Which any sane person would)
But I took a leap
(More like step forward)
And fell upon what I've been fighting against
All this time
3 days
13 months
When you fall into a hole
do you try to climb to the top
-Scraping your hands and knees on the way falling down a few times and damaging your heart
Or do you dig yourself deeper till you can no longer see the sun?
(Out of desperation with nothing left to do)
-Because you fear the climb, the falls, the difficulty
-Pitting yourself against yourself because you've already come this far?
I must really want to see China
For I am dug, maybe (hopefully) buried.
And I fear I will never feel the warmth of sun again.
At least one heart is going to be broken
I just hope
God I hope
That it's mine.
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
she says she likes to be alone
until she’s seated at a marble counter,
pitting open a grapefruit and
smiling fondly at its pinky-orange nectar,
refrigerator hum echoing
in the dimly empty house,
she welcomes the acidic trickle
seeping into her day-old papercuts,
her slurps rudely remind her that she is human
and cannot become unhinged
because bones are nothing
if not persistent
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
Here’s where poems come to die
A child sits alone,
But isn’t really alone,
His mind fires colors and shapes
Into all empty, black spaces
He hears the voice of his best friend, Henry,
They’ve known each other for two minutes
The child knows his story,
How he came from the same place
that the fairytales do.
The child’s heart is open.
The child’s innocence creates
And Henry smiles, his red
hair a strange color with no name.
And they laugh,
The child watches a small horse
Graze in the tall grasses of the prairie
Henry laughs because he’s always been ticklish
Right under his arms.
They whisper about their adventures
How Henry saved the child from
Oblivion.
From the job of constantly pitting peaches
From the centipede as it marched
To a war beat that only Henry and
The child can hear.
Years later, the boy doesn’t know
Henry.
And he doesn’t know he ever did.
That was beat out of him
After he stole his first pack of chewing gum.
And looked at his first *******
This is where poems come to die.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
On a brighter note
a Thames lighter boat,
where the rivermen between the banks give thanks to
tidal waves and wave across between the shores,between the puritans and ******
Southwark never bores the citizens,pitting them against the age where Shakespeare plays upon the stage and Chaucer sits in Tabard Square,
awaits the pilgrims who are milling corn atop the bridge.
Cromwell sells the tickets for his latest gig,to dig the graves and inter the raving lunatics who switch from bedlam down to palaces in the minster where the spinster out of place knits balaclavas for the faces that she sees dropping from a guillotine,
these things I've seen a thousand times, written in ten thousand lines and acted out below the chimes of clocks that stand before the sway of one more 'down south london way' or anyway what do I care if it's share and share alike or not.
I've got allotted but a short spell here,time for dinner,one more glass of beer and then my dear I'm on my way,
to stroll through more of yesterday.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
cup it and clasp it
grab and grasp it
firmly, proceed to strike it and stab it
before autumnal flames scatter it like sewer mice
and clouds of thunder become clouds of somber snowy lights
illuminated by the little lamp reflecting off Christmas ornaments
my vacant eyes and their hollow flights
of endless stairs
pitting to a cave of solid ice
i lay in the center
each and every of these numbing nights
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC