"prolonging" poems
Immortality
is such an idiotic
idea. **** that ****
Thoughts of prolonging
life through vegetables &
tea are greedy. sighs
I do those things cause
they taste delicious, & I
work out to feel good.
But I drink, often.
I smoke occasionally.
My body's been through hell.
I'd rather die tomorrow
than live to be like
100 years old.
My mind shutters
to think what this world will be
like at that point. sighs
I don't want to live too long,
I'll know when my time
is up, hopefully.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
I really just want to cry,
Just let it all out.
I don't know why
I feel this filled with doubt.
I'm kind of done
And I no longer see the fun
In prolonging this pain.
There's nothing I could do..
I just can't keep sane.
And
As I look around,
I see smiles,
Hear laughs
which makes me wonder...
How these people can live without breaking a sweat.
It's pretty inspiring they can stay
This strong ...
I used to be strong,
But then I grew weak
And ended up doing the wrong
That shan't be speaked.
Since then I have started to pray
Every single day for his help
To get me through this horrid phase.
But...I guess I don't pray hard enough
Or
Have a big enough faith.
So...
The reality,I assume,is
I'm forever lost in this place.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
I sat by the window and gazed out
at the rain falling down
in torrents and sheets.
The night was black as ink, save the stars;
barely visible behind thick storm clouds,
pinpricks of silver in the ebony scape,
as the rain continued to fall.
I thought of you, of the deliberation in your face
etched into every feature a painful, wavering resolve.
The decision before you:
two fates, the ending, or the prolonging of the time before the terminal predetermined.
I grieved as I remembered the pain in your eyes.
I know you too well. I have seen too much of you
for you to hide this from me. I broke
-a silent cry of realization, collapsing my furrowed brow into a contorted countenance
as I realized that you were gone
not just for now, but for good.
And so there I sat that night,
after I removed the gold chain you rested around my neck
after I scrubbed away the makeup
after I traded my lipsticked smile for a mourning countenance
-I sat, alone in the dark, and gazed out the window into the rain.
I wondered where things had gone wrong.
And so, May showers
drove away April's flowers.
It was all I could do to cry quietly,
face soaked with the saline of sadness
that dripped now on my chest.
Now, I sit again at the window
and the same song plays that had consoled me before
'you'll feel better when you wake up'
And I did.
The sadness stayed safely at the bay
while I tried to channel it again
But this time it wasn't the same.
Though I duplicated the mood down to the clothes I wore,
the heartache was no longer fresh
and my face remained dry.
Sure, I felt sad. But it was not from you.
It was not from a heartbreak or a brokenness.
It was inorganic sadness, brought on by my own need for closure,
the thirst for a goodbye that burned my throat in agony and sorrow
that my parched lips would never find.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Where you go I go
But still I will never see
What keeps you up at night
As you softly scream hauntedly
For you I will always care
Even if the sky shattered and fell
I would be there not letting a shard touch your hair
And vowing to make the heavens wish for hell
Where you go I go
But sill you forbid me to ask
From knowing what you know
What happened in your past
For you I am devastatingly aware
Of your sanity and your pain
Life is so cruel and unfair
I wish I could end your suffering alone in your brain
Where you go I go
Where ever it may be
If any one is going to hurt you
I would do it the most softly
We can finally take comfort in the end
And that I am no longer prolonging your pain
To the heavens I pray our souls will send
And that we will be blessed with the chance to start again
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
The story of a tiny gift, half chewed and fear-stained
Left on the alter outside the back door:
When first stunned with a slap or a precisely timed
Bite, a vigil is held -- wings twitch and flutter.
With a curious tilt, widened eyes record
Muscle spasms; calculating the
Flight risk; metering the force of the next
Outburst; prolonging the fun.
A game or performance art?
The victim's peers yell and screech
From the rooftops - do they know
The show is for them?
After few manoeuvres more it matters little
As a tiny neck snaps between missing teeth.
The audience scatters and the corpse is left behind
As an offering for those who feed the beast.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
i just lamented a more complex version of this; i just cannot believe we denote the same thing in order to share an understanding of the same by denoting as such, but when acting we feel so differently about it; imagine the noun iran in the mouth of an american, then picture the verbs subsequent... then imagine the noun america in the mouth of an iranian, then picture the verbs subsequent: words hold as much emotion as actions discard, even though the actions are worded, and the words are almost imaginary when concerned with what iraq was when given belshazzar.
i wonder if as many people would **** or die
for the noun apple, as they do for allah -
say the noun apple... apple apple apple long enough...
will you get apple juice? well no, so if you keep on saying
the noun allah allah... will that thing materialise?
the imaginary atheistic sense
of the word allah, is that humanity
turned the noun allah into a verb
of its own chosing due to man's free will,
i.e., say allah casually over coffee,
now say allah in jihad clothing...
the same noun among diverse verbs...
might as well invent a new grammatical
category of nouns and verbs mingling...
nouverbs... what noun invokes what action,
consolidated in what are excesses of adjectives,
given the quality of a life lived -
the man who casually said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in denmark managed to integrate
into danish society and start up a newspaper...
the man in syria who "casually" said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in syria didn't manage the former...
because his orientation of the noun
changed the path of the sequence of nouns / beheaded nuns,
since the cutting of the word verb,
managed to craft non-verbum-ergo-actio.
in defence of avoiding one’s own mortality,
one speaks against one’s own death,
thus one speaks with the enemy of the people
one shares a life with, for a fake chance of the feeling of prolonging.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
It hasn’t even been that long...
Bit over two weeks?
But tonight I gave up
I gave in to the pleasure
Stimulation
Excitement
Teasing
Prolonging
Then pleeeaassssure....
Mm... and to lie in bliss
In comfort
In serenity
In deep and surprising
Satisfaction.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 4:37 AM UTC
I like to find beauty in the things that hold on to us.
The universe has been writing wills and testaments on my typewriter and I am trying to listen.
It's saying things like "Let go... a little bit... let go... your grip has always been too strong".
The universe calls me dear and I want to scream when he tells me to let go.
Let go. Let the light in. I'm tired of letting things in, I am tired, universe I am tired
and you are a ***** liar.
Nobody is coming back.
Nobody is coming back.
My wrists are full of dead friends.
NOBODY IS COMING BACK.
And the universe replies "but when they do..."
Everything is always a hesitance. Why can't something be forever?
My words will die the day I do and what will be left of me?
A promise? A broken promise?
A broken promise.
I hope you know by my poems if I am doing well or not.
I hope you know it's usually the latter.
I hope you know I have loved you as long as I have thought
and oh, I have thought.
/
/
/
the universe never saw this coming
the universe quiets his mouth, lets her speak with only her tongue,
tries to decipher the back and forth.
the universe never knew I was a shadow.
nobody knew.
and all that's left, when the echoes die
all that's left will always be our prolonging.
our promise? our broken promise?
a broken promise.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
All things die
All kingdoms fall
Every waking hour
Incessantly recall
Grim reaps all
Drip by drip
Burn
Till wicks end
Choice, who here decides?
Pleasure beguiles, sets purpose via
Once voice strewn, lost through
Millions of cries in the continuum
Each time you blink your eyes
There is a glimpse
Behold! Nothingness!
Slaves to your own demise
What's the point prolonging?
When you are coming forth by day
Grim reaps all
All the while vitality escapes
Eternity succumbs to imminences of fate
Familiar pulsating rhythms will terminate
So what's the point?
Grim reaps us all
Coming forth by day
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 8:16 AM UTC
I do not believe in fairytales, so be straight,
Experience was present, and it's worth the faith.
I do not want to rely, on repeating hopes in oblivion,
If promises were prayers, I don't have religion.
Continuing is just a self-detonation, prolonging the agony,
blaming myself, living life hard sadly.
I am seeing the inequality, on every angle and scopes,
sometimes I am thinking hanging my neck on the ropes.
and as I blame,
negative tendency,
occurs.
comes, sudden,
unexpectedly.
but,
when I see you, negativity's gone,
my inspiration's overflowing,
keeps me away from frown.
but,
when I see you, my depth dissapears,
and all of a sudden,
I want to lend an ear,
but,
when I'm with you, my heart skips a beat,
I step out of my seriousness,
in your cup, I sitdown and take a sip,
but,
when I'm with you, I want to listen
I want to know you further,
overlaps, to what they're just seeing,
to hear every stories told, with your cheerful voice,
your warmth, that caresses my body,
builds up my poise,
transcends a choice, to be happy or not,
I forget all my worries,
and say I'm a little pessimist, but
..I am looking forward,
to stay this way,
for as long, as we both can,
complete our days.
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:18 AM UTC
So young and newly married
Hanging on by the thread of love
Sometimes though in life we see
That thread isn't wound tight enough
Through the daily struggles
Most of them unseen
What happened to the newlywed
Where went all the dreams
Holding on
Barely holding on...
A father and husband out of work
A family living out of the car
Is this the American dream we've built
Is this now where we are
Cardboard serves a purpose
As a bed and a homemade sign
To keep the cold off of the floor
Hey brother can you spare a dime
Holding on
Barely holding on...
The doctors diagnosis
Doesn't give much hope for life
Just a simple six months ago
There was no thought of dying
Even less hope in your case
Just prolonging time
You could spend what little you have left
Or go ahead and say your goodbyes
Holding on
Barely holding on...
No matter your life's lot
The position that you hold
We're all in the same boat on the same stream
Trying to stay afloat
There are so many different scenarios
Which could haunt many a page
That in life continually follow us
Throughout all our days of
Holding on
Barely holding on...
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 8:32 AM UTC
Paradise
Men falling from the sky using parachutes of peacock plumage hues
The professionals plummeting in perfect spirals
The novices sheepishly prolonging their gentle, gliding drop
The salmon shade adobe dwellings with their thatched, lovely roofs
Shelter me in their auspices from an unforgiving star
Handmade tiles of authentic design line each steep stone step
A covert staircase leading nowhere, we lounge near the pool by day
There I observe a couple through a sour tequila haze
A scarlet clad native and her sometime American lover
Their hands never leave each other’s guilty bodies, sexually charged
His absence of wedding ring betrays his intended affair
In the distance crushing waves claim territory on the shoreline
I underestimate; in a death roll I lose all sense of direction
The blushing sky with rosy smile watches over its children
A lighthouse by its lonesome guards the cliffs from clumsy ship
Locals sell their wares by approaching fair-skinned tourists
Necklaces of beads require long hours of work
Their labor goes unappreciated, sells for meager dollar
Popcorn man blows his lonely, dissonant horn forever
Into the deaf night
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 6:17 AM UTC
We were driving my car
out of town a few sunsets ago.
Had just gotten from the shore,
uphill on an 80.
Every headlight
like a good newspaper headline
to your cracking Sportage leather seat—
the steering wheel as heavy
as my breathing.
Fog devours all the windows
and if the engine participates
with the general meltdown
least i can do to help myself
is call a mechanic.
Hey now
stop peeling the last
bit of skin
on your already-bleeding lips;
you’ve gone past the necessary pain
now youre just prolonging the
sight of red.
Even traffic lights
turn green once in a while.
There are no dead ends from sharp curves.
Maneuvering always seemed
like cylinder blocks on your shoulders
But now youre steady;
too steady
unmoving
and it’s scary isn’t it?
To simply be
unable.
An engine
you cannot engineer—
navigation
you cannot decipher.
Cut throat mechanism.
We’ve passed by
too many yellow lights
to forget
we sometimes need
a bit of a slowdown.
And perhaps you’re gonna
have to go through
the kind of adrenaline
that digs your nail
underneath your palm first.
The current
leads the batallion.
Even the strongest
require a running start
before the leap.
Breathe.
Twist the key in the ignition.
Drive.
The fog eventually subsides.
The mechanic eventually arrives.
What i’m trying to say is
my car broke down in the middle
of the road.
A slow descend.
I counter the shaking fist.
At least we didnt crash.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 11:19 AM UTC
Leaves aging gray covered with dust,
Iron losing its will to cope up with rust,
Flowers withered losing their lust,
And the hope pulverized by the broken trust.
Days swiftly passing by like a river flowing
To those memories from the days of yore they are holding,
With mournful souls they are living
Each passing day feels like dying.
Not much do they have, still surviving the wave,
Crawling their paths, on which the traces will engrave,
Swallowing the curse and exhibiting the traits of a brave,
Succumbed to temptation, still prolonging their grave.
Holding on to what is still left of them after being broken
With bruises all over - purple and swollen,
Hearing those painful words that remained unspoken
Their hearts lost, stolen.
As love never fades, but grows each season,
People do change, for love is the reason,
It reigns in any region,
A salvation emerging, shining like a beacon.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
Fathercraft
has been passed down
from father to father
losing and gaining
at each slow bequeathing -
less heavy-handed there
more soft-hearted here
as each generation rejects
the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder
what's left of the original art
and what we've lost.
This is my food for thought
as I feed my daughter -
crumbled digestive
with mashed banana -
perhaps a favourite of mine
and my father's,
while she grins and chortles
blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles
with absolute child-delight.
Food for thought
as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek
and laugh along,
prolonging the rare perfection
of this father moment.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
It's crazy how long we've had this tube
I've said to myself "when it's finished, I'll move"
We often go through three, four a year
But this tube is prolonging our time, my dear
Each brush of this paste is how I cope
A twice daily ritual, this tube is my trope
I predict enough squeezes to last us through March
And after one last squeeze
We'll inevitably depart
....
When I moved back home
The tube here was new
I think about you twice a day;
I'll always love you
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 11:57 PM UTC
Flowing steadily, dancing on skin-
Losing control, darkness consuming-
It drips, drops, pooling on the floor-
Scent of sin stinking and bruising...
Hemorrhaging, scratching profusely-
Shades of beautiful crimson red-
Open scars from stitches undone-
Prolonging agony and pain...
Satisfying the blood lust within-
Stingy smell of primal needs of man-
Nothing beats the euphoria felt-
Flesh opens and gore gushes out...
Regret comes only after it's done-
Washing the red stains off shaking hands-
Is it regret? Satisfaction?
Either way the deed is long done...
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
It always starts with just a sip
Maybe a shot
Then the games begin
And I want it
The burning in my throat
The room keeps spinning
Round and round
I keep downing more and more
Prolonging the buzz
Until it's more than just a tingle
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
The penguins march
On a stretch of snowy starch
Ignoring the onlookers
But wolf whistling among the crowd, the hookers
The sounds clearly getting louder
Is that... is that gun powder?
Gouging out the eyes to block out the sight
Is definitely not the answer to your plight
The confetti flies upwards and away
To turn into a malleable *** of clay
Juggling the yard of goat string cheese
More after this message? Yes please!
Longing on the thought of belonging
As our not so miserable existence we seem to be prolonging
Your thoughts, i wish to sway
With my words, let me take you away
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
I pushed him back, took control,
A hunger burned within my soul.
His eyes, wide with sheer desire,
Lit the room like a growing fire.
As I took him, slow and deep,
I savored every sigh he'd keep.
Each moan, each shudder, fueled my need,
A dance where I would take the lead.
He neared his peak, I felt it rise,
But stopped to see it in his eyes.
I teased, I lingered, made it last,
Prolonging pleasure, holding fast.
For in that moment, time stood still,
A game of passion, matched in skill.
I drew it out, the night our own,
In every touch, a thrill was sown.
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 10:23 PM UTC
The abysm of the unbodied Infinite;
A fathomless zero occupied the world.
A power of fallen boundless self awake
Between the first and the last Nothingness,
Recalling the tenebrous womb from which it came,
Turned from the insoluble mystery of birth
And the tardy process of mortality
And longed to reach its end in vacant Nought.
As in a dark beginning of all things,
A mute featureless semblance of the Unknown
Repeating for ever the unconscious act,
Prolonging for ever the unseeing will,
Cradled the cosmic drowse of ignorant Force
Whose moved creative slumber kindles the suns
And carries our lives in its somnambulist whirl.
--By Sri Auro,Book I,Canto I
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Barely do my Wednesdays fill with longing,
Lost observers rendering August whims to the scrapheap of infinity,
Galvanized entities downing tools schematically,
A posse of awareness pronating towards incandescent light,
Mostly everything a prolonging of jest and belly laughs,
Dawn brings the sick belly of listlessness,
Hordes of happenchance and imaginers of silence dancing,
The chitter chatter cadence does dim for a minute stretching yonde
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
El testigo of the ego,
avowal amid amigos
Pero sentidos dormidos
Seran the death of me though.
Querido Mr. Reap Sow
do you hear yourself go?
Host the dog show of that 'lost hope'
An ego weaves abrigos
Con todo los gran peligros
Morose recallings of your parents belongings-
Still longing,
still longing
Prolonging
Belonging in algo
Un trago, dos tragos, tres please
“to ease the squeeze” of life, they mean
“Yeah, of course, duh, hello
They're guys with big dough
They can play strip shows of words,
Pay for pinchos de dolor, por favor!
Con calor y sin aguantar.”
Tus llantas de Esperanza,
Creciendo debajo tu alma,
estan puesto en exactitude?
Tu attitude;
does the longitude and the latitude always point to you?
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
i could spend my life in utter awkwardness
watching my brothers smoke and my sisters cry
aunties smiling and prolonging straightforwardness
my ***** cousins won’t ever say hi
i could spend my life sitting at the corner writing poems
about these drap people who refuse to stay in their homes
the kids would play hide and seek
the mannequins with heads up until it’s too awkward to not speak
skinny waists, blackened eyes, and porcelain faces
daru desi banging loud; turning us deaf
high heels; no flats no laces
horrible is the food beautifully prepared by the chef
(who, by the way, thinks we're unbelievably uncivilised)
i see them drenched in forgettum juice
they’re deep in drunken oblivion, you see
it’s incredible - when they say ‘let loose’
’cause their eyes pry when you let yourself free
the ladies enjoy their liberation;
those poor oppressed dearies
no more doting on their husbands in juxtaposed veneration
they give a grave attempt to personify their reveries
the men enjoy pelvic thrusting
they’re sly crooks who love lusting
i guess i’ll be alright;
for a mere few minutes, if i’m out of sight
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Creases cemented in skin of ages,
bending forward ratcheting wrinkles
piled like a car crash, systemically dried
routing for moisture moguls, malfunctioned,
marked measures of time spelt skin attack,
pillowed ruts run deep, prolonging
their birthmark, plumping....out on a date
with new age spaces yet to be filled
Sarcasm streets, filching frowned brows
suns' stolen chastity, lifting out brown
messages spotted at random
grey mandarins, juiceless, bribing
to be heard, a manifesto hidden,
shrivelled prunes wallowing in dried skins
reaching out for the bottomless custard jug
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC