"procuring" poems
If I were to be gifted,
With bounties of superman.
Super sight, super strength super everything!
Freedom and the rare ability to fly,
I'd accomplish oh so many things.
It probably won't be any worth to it
Because it was so easy.
I gained without the love of procuring.
I accomplished accomplishments,
Without the batting of my eyes.
Without the pout of my lips.
I achieved this world,
At my knees free of any hurdles.
Yet it isn't worth any of my super.
Maybe that's why we are all created equal.
And no one superior than the other.
So we treat one another with equality
And join to accomplish wonders,
With each others at our sides.
Free of cruelty and envy.
Free of regret and jealousy.
Free of guilt and hopelessness.
Maybe that's why we are humans,
And humans were created weak.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
Watching her sit with her crossed legs
And her gaze upwards
Like the world is too petty
For her eyes to surrender.
She was magnificent, yes
But her looks feigned a lie
Her eyes could **** with intense fire
Her scent was amicable
For her preying hands
And if a being so unfortunate
Crosses her path
Or meets her eyes
She springs like a cheetah
And rips them apart,
Metaphorically, of course.
.......
My eyes wander off
.......
His frenzied looks
And unshaved face
Ruffled up clothes
Looks like he has had his worst day
Wonder what's got him so worked up
Must be a hangover
Must have had a drink too much
Last night
Yes, I can see a wife
Beaten up in an alcohol-fueled mania.
But those petunias in his hands
Beautiful
What a contrast to the man himself
A mistress?
Or an attempt to gain forgiveness
From his wife?
.......
Sipping the best local tea
Sit back
And let my mind have its spree
.......
Pick pocket
Such an adorable face
Blue-eyed, her tiny hands
Slipping in and out
Procuring knick knacks and wallets.
Life was never fair
Mother's sick and in a tarpaulin roofed
Shack off the main street.
Dad's a drunk
And she's had enough with that nonsense.
Her timed precision and skilled fingers
Workings its way for a loaf and
The extra change for her mother
Curled up like a ball
In pain.
.....
Change for the tea
And morning paper.
Picking up a stride
Take a left from the plaza
Into a throng of living bodies,
And to be one among
The many lives
Toiling,
Living,
Breathing.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
procuring lexical polymorphism
synthesizing atypical signifier
playing blue album
awaiting tomorrow's celebrations
adding complex plugins
altering element content
watching office mascot
wheeling hue-named albums
undulating forest growth
pricing those yankees
finding layman's chaos
enjoying another victory
reviewing markup concepts
ditching error messages
enjoying relative obscurity
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
Maelstrom of emotion emboldening an eye opening betokening of an attitude full of alluring arousal
Walking thesaurus as fluid as a notable chorus playing in accordance with an authentic Baroque performance; silver-tongued eloquent deliveries enthusing an amusing musing
Roaring reassurance of being on the prospect of procuring central evidence - the preciousness within choosing a gained conscientiousness approach promotes an unadulterated antidote
Introspection of one’s predilections stirred the modern, robust direction toward the recollection of a pristine, internal haven nurturing relaxation and crystallization.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
Growing up I discovered that it is innate
In human nature
To find, seek, or beg for affection.
I stayed silent in order to watch those around me:
Some were good at capturing attention
Like on a warm summer night
And children and running around with glass jars
Procuring fireflies that shine like precious gems.
These children had the talent of keeping the fireflies
Dazzling for days.
Some sought after the coveted attention,
With their baited fishing poles in hand,
They patiently waited in the middle of the lake
And held onto their prize when caught
Until it died when they would go and fish for a new one.
Perhaps a longer, bigger, heavier, more valuable catch.
Some are light, ethereal,
Like a subtle perfume you can only smell
When you are mere inches away from the wearer.
They are sweet and not too persistent in their ways.
I continued to watch
And place people in these categories.
What they all in common, though,
Was selling their precious:
The fireflies, the fish, the perfume.
I looked to myself,
What did I have to sell? To offer?
Anything at all?
Surely I wasn’t as skilled as the lightning bug trapper
Or as patient as the fisherman
Or as fragrant as the perfume-wearer.
Instead, I was the girl
Who would admire the stars for all they are,
But not try to keep one;
Who would live in the now
Rather than feebly attempting to move my watch
Back a few years.
It was then I realized,
My love is not for sale.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
I thought
my thoughts
were bigger than anyone's.
Maybe I was bigger than anyone.
This served to isolate me
from the fact that I am small, not bigger and I am okay
with that.
When did it begin? Why would I need this mechanism of living?
Did it start at birth? Or when my cat died in our house fire?
Maybe...
When I lost my father to his mental illness? When he was taken away?
Maybe the ****
When the trauma set in?
If I am a mass of cells, a living organism,
vulnerable to this world of others.
I need protection. There was none when little. Children need protection.
I developed my bigger-self by watching others. I learned to protect.
I learned to heal. I learned to forgive, but always, my thoughts
were bigger than yours. You didn't recognize so I appeared
aloof, angry, bitter, warming, smarter, friendly, volatile, politically correct, patient, intense, stubborn, caring, wistful, shattered and put together again. I was all over the map. I couldn't find my waypoint, until now.
This is life's way. Our vehicle is our thoughts.
I am not bigger in thought, in action or in self. I am tired of running away, of blaming, of being ashamed.
I no longer need protection other than from myself.
I am now relaxing in the part I could not have been taught. The idea that even experiences, over and over and over again, would teach me my lesson. You ask why people keep repeating
mistakes. This is our allotment. The price each of us pays.
It is my thoughts that save me now, wondering about my son, his illness, about my predicament
after years of hard work, unabashedly independent, procuring mindfulness, deliberating the Buddhist way, meditating on thoughts,
through a maze of my twelve steps
that I now for this moment am alone in. My thoughts deconstructed. More connected, but not bigger.
My shoulders drop, my face unfurrows, my heart slows, a tear begins if I let it. I am released. I will not suffer further.
How can I tell you, I am not bigger any longer and I am at peace.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
1262
I cannot see my soul but know ’tis there
Nor ever saw his house nor furniture,
Who has invited me with him to dwell;
But a confiding guest consult as well,
What raiment honor him the most,
That I be adequately dressed,
For he insures to none
Lest men specified adorn
Procuring him perpetual drest
By dating it a sudden feast.
2k
aromatic coffee awakens senses
midst the gestured warmth of radiant
smiles's 'tween morning brew,
reverently paused to catch
the awe inspiring poignancy
of sunrise's exhilaration,
whilst cozily wrapped in the delightful unfurl
of captivating poetry's skillful delectation
a rising ritual begun many blue moons afore,
tempting consciousness, feeding soulfulness
enlightening sensibilities as it
enriches the day's appreciation
'pon the keen awareness of poets,
tempests from all niches of the world
coming together amid upheavals and serenity,
ceremoniously dubbed fierce confirmations
of words expressly borne, communing the
artfully spirited of resourceful artisans,
procuring special collective bonds that
only poesy can wholly dictate,
they look upon us as enigmas
rather strange breed of puzzling characters,
as this inexplicable endeavor
escapes their stifled perceptions
of conduit's musing reasonable facsimile,
we're merely cognitive passages for
experiences on common ground
in realizations of all-too-human foibles
eccentricities, yearnings and fortitude,
released deliverance of potpourri
serving up inky joy beyond expression,
intention's distinction deciphering
reflections in meditative affirmations,
breadth of unrestrained beholden visions
conjured notions of paramount significance
wherein lies evidence of life's burnt offerings,
beginnings and endings of hearts' indulgences
wept in resolute celebrations of existence
as only a poet could discernibly translate
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
When do we change?
Is it now?
Or in ten years time…
Is it in 2999?
Is this a sign or an unseen shrine?
Can we travel lightyears of compassion to finally reach what matters?
And join the orchestras of our hearts to form a cacophony of beauty that grows to other planets, admitting how lost we are…
Or are we hate first, death burp, old church…
Starving billions yet again just to prove a point -
Just so we can light a joint and oink -
Why must we parade, not permeate?…
Escape but stay safe…
We could evolve from the inside now, freeing every structure of our being…
Procuring our loving spout, rather than drowning in doubt…
When will you decide to step into the liquid mirror, joining timelines of past and future -
Upon which - being that every-creature; you see through a lensless camera…
Can you embody the real virtue and meaning of captured existence, and in doing so outshine death by becoming life itself?…
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:17 AM UTC
There are things that disappear
when I close my eyes,
dangerous things:
fire and its notebook,
the burden of procuring more poison,
my love affair with hydrogen,
the missing footage,
the sniper's veil,
the secret moon,
the cat's tale.
There are things that disappear
when I close my eyes,
random things:
Icarus descending into
brokenness and the candy afterlife,
the sound of the young
approaching an unseizable world,
the splendor of gretel,
the plunder of hansel,
a house of sticks for inbound kings.
There are things that disappear
when I close my eyes,
things said in passing:
"don't forget to write,"
"I'm too emotional to care,"
"I've got problems bigger than global warming,"
"touch this and die,"
"I think it's passed the expiration date,"
"leave it for the archaeologists,"
"the heart is sometimes wrong..."
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
I find myself reaching for heights greater than my own
Scaling obstacles, like the decaying crumble of buildings
every inch of me searching for something to hold on to
Some sort of purchase to bring my tumble to an ending
and give me a moment to pick up the pieces
I am Striving
To be the man you once imagined I would
Trying hard to dress the part of your eyes reflection
To improve upon that young girls idea of what it meant to be a man
To stand a little taller in hopes of procuring the stars
I am Striving
To turn back time
To climb on to that roof where whispered words were exchanged from trembling lips while the summer stars hung bright above the trees and
Listen
Listen to the sharp intake of breath as we both suddenly realized how far we’d fallen
Not knowing that we had climbed so high...
Never knowing what it meant to hit the ground
Our impact shook the world
I am Surviving
The earthquake that cracked our foundation
The unmitigated mess I’ve made of our moments
Me left staring at my fragmented reflection, wondering how I got so far off track
I am Surviving
One day at a time
One foot above the next
Climbing over shattered summer rooftops
Trying to clear the pieces of the home we built
Searching for where my road begins
Still not knowing what it meant to fall so hard
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
Will I walk,
Will I talk -
Will I open up,
Or will I baulk?
---------
Moved by time, unremitting;
Approaching disintegration - universal dispersal.
Emotional denial, fearing the inevitable.
Procuring the future by biological means;
Neglecting angst instilled in collected dreams;
Ever hopeful for intervention - role reversal.
----------
Dancing betwixt light beams
Floating on echoed screams
Unsure what reality means;
Confronted by attitudes obscene
Lost amid chaotic scenes
Is anything what it seems?
---------
Hello - How are you?
Hello - Can I help you?
Hello - Did you hear me?
Hello - Who are you?
Hello - Do I understand you right?
Hello - What'd you say?
Hello - Are you with me?
Hello - Did you see that?
Hello - Are you sure?
Hello - What's this?
Hello - I'm trying to communicate!
Hello - Welcome.
Hello - Come in.
Hello - I am...Friendly (and Curious)...
---------
Too much angst
Too many sorrows
Too much fear
Too few tomorrows.
Too little, too late;
Too bad, too sad.
Too much waste
Too much greed
Too much gain
Too much need.
Too distracting
Too frivolous
Too complex
Too preposterous.
Too many scandals
Too many re-acting
Too muck shock
Too few enacting.
Too much terror
Too much blood
Too many agendas
Too much cud.
Too much goodwill
Too little done
Too...
...You...
You're 2 kind.
Thanks, mate.
---------
Rhetoric or ridiculous?
Rude or risqué?
Right or righteous?
Ruling or ruining?
Revolving or resolved?
Revolting or revolutionary?
Repeating or reposing?
Revealed or reviled?
Rambling or raving?
Rising or risen?
Robust or round?
Rigorous or regressive?
---------
Aggressive
Repressive
Depressive
Regressive.
Impressive
Oppressive
Expressive
Obsessive.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Mountains are subdued in triumph
Valleys are crossed in glory
Battles are tamed to surrender
Whirlwinds are made still in valor
Faith conquers fear in victory
With discipline, the ace-axe!
I am discipline
The soul of the winning army
The refining army of the inimitable
Procuring success to the weak
Making small numbers formidable
Turning talent to power
Turning disability to ability
I am discipline, the almighty formula!
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 12:49 AM UTC
An event. An addition
Simple, complex.
Novel. Delight.
Amusement, fear.
Through time enough, enough through time
From age to age, from soul to soul.
From the depths, from the heights, amounting
A dream of fears, a nightmare of desires
A contrast in hope, a contrast in faith
A distant light burns brightest, mutually.
Though joy, the greatest
Offers more than most
However demands a certain yearning.
Of legendary fabled origin
Pending finality.
from reality.
through infinity.
Bounding from thought to conclusion
Procuring and devouring;
Knowledge of beauty and the beauty of knowledge
Ever-lasting, yet finite, understanding.
Aclaimed to conquer all
To vanquish all
To destory all
To end all
Yet survives
Notwithstanding
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Wake up. You need to get up and do something. All you have done is slept. Get up. Wake up. You're wasting time. You're wasting yourself. You're useless. Get up. Wake up.
How many sleeping pills does it take to end this? Where can you purchase a gun, illegally?
Wake up! Get up!
Remember that time you were a child. The phase you had with melting pen caps on lightbulbs? I'd walk in your bedroom and hear a sizzle. You standing in front of the source. Black-handed. Sometimes red-handed. Really depending on which pen you tore apart.
My poor peculiar, special little boy.
It's time to wake up.
You must get up now.
A shot of Jack and a lager.
Thanks.
Ravenous gulps.
Scribbling on napkins.
Little one box ideas.
Multiple pens. Different ink.
Couple notebooks.
Exacto blade, one that looks like a carpenter's knife.
Some masking tape.
Never deny the importance of masking tape.
Keep drinking. Keep producing.
Try sleeping in the morning.
No need to wake up from this high. Walk home. Keep procuring ideas.
Take a nap on a desk.
Buy a bus ticket.
Wake up six hours away from home.
No bag.
Some money.
Look for a terminal.
Look terminal.
A heart is most likely a bed.
It stays asleep.
Home, in a bedroom.
Curtains drawn. Shoulders carrying the weight of the world. I'm tired and I can't move and my body hurts and my eyes keep tearing. And I'm curled up and I don't want to feel like this. And the incessant ringing of the phone is unbearable. And I'm being told to wake up, but I think I'm dreaming. And this reality is absurd. Any reality is absurd.
And maybe I'm not sleeping.
Who's to say I'm even laying here.
My eyes can't be open.
Both eyes are ******* closed.
Why can't I get up?
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Procuring conditioned conformity;
Pejorative and intentional,
Disdainful to divinity.
Subjugation subliminal.
Facile masks of jocundity,
Blind us from the notion,
To which our hearts open ignorantly,
Causing inevitable commotion.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
i find myself drowning in murky waters,
an oil spill of equations and metaphors,
quandaries and paradigms.
the sun is a constant overcast even on the most blinding days,
faces are grim even with the brightest smiles.
messily scrawled words read chaos on pristine canvases,
incessant scribbles drill canals into my brain.
one tentative tap away,
always one tentative tap away from reality,
but never quite there,
and so i fall deeper.
thin heels clicking against glossy tiles,
heavy footsteps shuffling into classrooms,
distant chatter stalking my shadows,
actuate stings of dread luring me in.
thread-like strings are attached to my limbs,
a marionette with a feeble attempt of procuring freedom,
i am a victim to disorder.
inundated with scattered pages,
furious streaks of neon hues form riots across my desk.
before me stands a mirror of my very own thoughts,
and my mind takes everything in
only to be left with nothing specific in the end.
i work with a jumbled puzzle set,
consisting of no essential moment
to print itself onto my memory.
yet there remains a fascicle of nerves
screaming,
waiting to be heard,
but it becomes like me—submerged in murky water.
living in chaos is living
where moments are constantly out of focus
and the abundance of simply everything is too overwhelming.
but to wake in the earliest hours of the day
when the sun is still yearning to lie upon a mattress of stars
and neighborhood lights are flickering onto rusty street signs and empty tar roads,
is a blessed refuge from the tumultuous scenes
that plague me daily.
silence slices through the fog of my cognition like a bayonet,
and i blink away my sleep-addled state to take a dip in the tangerine skies.
nascent rays gleam over rooftops,
trees become silhouettes on an oil painting,
and golden clouds blush from the soft caress of the sun.
for some reason,
the experience felt foreign,
like a mirage of all of the images i was never able to grasp.
dawn is a portal to another realm,
a shelter to shield myself from the murky waters,
only there’s still no escape—
i’m just no longer drowning.
instead,
i find that i can breathe.
(chaos is loud but silence is louder;
i wouldn’t mind listening to silence for a day,
because i’ve already been listening to chaos for years.)
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 3:09 AM UTC
Passing through depression
Acting with aggression
Tired of society
Dealing with anxiety
In hopes of procuring the best
no room left for jest
Dry mind,dry thoughts,
horrid consequences
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
How close I will be to a certain death,
as the clock at my bedside strikes midnight.
There will be no prince to rescue me,
or to be kneeling on one knee the next day.
Sliding on the glass slipper I wore to the most extraordinary night of my life...
It's 12 o'clock and still I am obsolete
It's 12 o'clock and it becomes more apparent to me,
that this is it...
It's coming closer.
Loneliness creeps in, making its way through my veins.
Procuring its torturous ritual as it's done time and time again,
but this time is different.
I can feel myself drifting, fading away into the darkness.
I scream but there is no sound to be heard and no one around to hear it.
It's 12 o'clock midnight and I lay here alone in my grave,
waiting for this unknown stranger to rescue me.
My eyes adjust to the darkness,
I blink once, twice, three times...
It's the clock.
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding...
(Darkness)
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Call me the butterfly maker,
for I the distracted crafter
often carves irregular squares
from changing planes of vision
into visual planes, flying
as monarchs migrating home.
Call me the snowflake cloud,
for I the cold observer
often molds objective droplets
from forgotten formalities
into memorable figures, coveting
as blankets embracing dirt.
Call me the stone sculptor,
for I the traveling poet
often lifts stone castings
from feeble footprints
into familiar portraits, beckoning
as mothers procuring peace.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
I cannot help but remember
that things got awfully sad,
the day you began sleeping
around the clock.
I was never one for time
but then again, I found
myself sitting alone
in the yellow kitchen,
wondering if you would
find the courage to climb out of bed.
Once it was midnight,
I salivated and began
to dream of railroads
and the places they could take me
if only I could stop counting
and forget the way
you left
the stove, barren.
That was the first time
I knew hunger intimately
and then for years,
I would taste forgiveness,
chewing it over and over
until I finally could take
no more, throwing it up,
in the hope that I would
find answers in my emptiness.
But the clarity never came
in that way and I stopped
looking to others to make me whole.
I ran and ran so far
that I forgot about to think
about you and your weight
yet I know it slept in my spine:
the Pavlovian response
of procuring the void
I so desperately wished to comprehend.
My body took me
to the places I dreamt of
that night when I was a
ravenous girl,
You always told me I was beautiful
but I felt maybe
that I was too much.
I tried to shrink down so that
only my mind remained
but I’m two parts mad,
so at least I know I’m made
of something.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
It used to be the task of Moms to ***** train young ***** and Janes.
The government had other work; such as procuring tanks and planes.
These days the STATE has grown so large that they alone must run the show
The President, by Royal decree, demands we let his people go.
Though Male and Female God created; that either-or -ness now seems dated.
Learned scholars have explained how **** might think herself a Jane,
providing Kaitlyn, once named Bruce, with a ready-made excuse.
Conservatives rail, but what’s the use?
He She or It? Are you confused about which bathroom you should use?
In former days it was the done thing to use the room that matched your fun thing
Now delicate Psyches are rubbed raw as their gender issues they explore.
Once more the forces of the law are brought to bear on Segregation;
now its stools, not schools, which are the cause for intervention.
Yes, women have their Privacy rights- when it comes to procreation.
All else must now be sacrificed to the vision of a much changed nation.
When Adam and Eve think they’re Ada and Steve
Let them *** where they want or the State is aggrieved.
Adolescence is just such a jumble these days;
What with male lesbians, trannies and gays.
The young must find it most confusing
about which bathroom they should be using.
In New York City, if you so please,
You won’t be arrested if found using our trees.
Obama started with such high hopes.
I voted for him but now I’m bitter,
That the Presidency of hope and change
is winding up here in the *******
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
In rank darkness an entity from below
at 3 am reaches for me
Never flinching, that black winged one swirls fierce red eyes my way
Crouching hell bent on first procuring flesh and subsequently my soul
Unleashing the inner grimoire to truly seek its unquenchable devices
Believe that its coerced intentions drains its victims weak
Usually triumph rains phasing captured one's soul from *** to death
Slipping undauntedly away failed Incubus next time will better walay
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC