"pseudonyms" poems
*
Epilogue
you
only live
within my letters
hundreds
handwritten
unreplied
i
only live
when you say my name
blue
pseudonyms
reminds you of another
this
is no present
meaningless words
kept us alive
in each other's houses
no address
left
only a grave
two, i guess
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
did not know her when she was miniskirts and high heels,
before she converted to the one true religion of
poetry & yoga
some stray dog thots raveling in a pack
cross the not-even-6am brain that alternates tween
new day Adam apple crumb crisp and
distracting lascivious Eve ones
I,
would have loved you same back then,
no different than now
I,
write in different styles
under so many pseudonyms,
but it is the same man
I,
who crawls into bed nightly with
great expectations and a list of salutations
to wake you up and commence writing how
I,
love your poetic yoga-toned long legs
snaking between mine
while I imagine them in miniskirts and high heels
which is a long way round of saying
You,
alone, my darling forever young one,
are my
one true religion...
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Flying above the plain of my existence
Floating not falling
Searching for a new kind of substance
Or just another calling
Something to take me higher
Above this place you call reality
This angel in my ear is a liar
But this cloud of smoke is heavenly
Surrounding me
Taking me in under it's wing
A light dusting of white
To calm the insanity
And that's just the beginning
Inside there's a growing need
Branching out through my limbs
Starting with some stems and a seed
There's no lack of pseudonyms
Call it whatever you can think of
It takes me to that place I need to be
Maybe it's a new kind of love
Reaching unknown depths inside of me
Cascading with dreams of sanity
Planting roots in my core
It's almost calming
Knowing when I can't handle anymore
And when I wanna keep flying
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
My skin is p a l e
My body c o ld
And in my chest lies a broken heart of fools gold
My re alit y I on ce knew is ha z y a nd n on exist en t
It's grown old
And I'm becoming tired of being bold
And being told right from wrong
I'm sinking softly down when I don't know how to swim
Every inch that I further lose from possibility to stay afloat is lessening my want or need for a life boat
Every breath I attempt to take fills my lungs with ugly pseudonyms and sends me down deeper into my lonesome underpopulated town inhabited only by fragments of once strong relationships that i held so close to me that I c ould n't b reat h e, the relationships that kept my entire being from sinking in the first place.
I'm drowning and I can't see what's even in front of me
I'm a ship bound by anchor to the wrong bad habits of shedding my blood willingly to bloodthirsty ravenous sharks in the sea of my minds eye
This was once a safe harbor for the ones I kept close
The ones that knew what mattered to me and the ones I cherished most
Now its a sea full of gh o sts
Of the people I trusted them the most
I trusted them to not turn on me or use me like a host
And now I'm the one dro w ning
I' m so sca re d
Now when I share my harbor it feels so
U n fa i r
They don't understand what I risk give to let them be there
It never harbors in their heart as deeply as it does mine
The possibility of even defining how hard it is to let these ships safely pass through this harbor will now and forever never be able to escape my pale numbing lips
Only silence
Everything here is just riddled with murderous crashing waves
Any relationship that enters I try so desperately to save
And in that attempt
The harbor starts to misbehave
The waves destroy every boat or anything that floats
Anything at all to help me cope with being so alone or the feeling of even remotely being at home.
My fingertips are numb and cold and starting to fold and I can't feel those things I could before
I just want all of this over
N o m o re dro w n i n g
All my life boats have sunk
Now I'm just stuck
All these hands and graves are grabbing at me and pulling me down ev ery whi ch wa y at the
bott om of the
oce an
u nd er
al l
th e s e
h e a v y
waves.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Instead of foraging around making connections
with cables and wireless systems that
bluetooth and sync their way
into our pocket technologies
and portable screens
(tablets of which we self-prescribe
and regulate through overdose
and comatose keenings of stillness
and waking dreams)
why, instead
don’t we fool around
making connections
with others of like mind and brainwaves
instead of radiowaves and
the mastered minds of computer waves
and lift an arm and
really wave
beyond our windows to
real people
in real time
rather than peeping
like a holographic Tom through
tabs and browsing windows,
multi-tasking time in a state of mime
like it’s about to expire
(like the wireless wires will break)
and all that we’ll have is
all we can physically take
from this moment awake we call ‘life’
– a mistake.
What else is left now
in this vegetative
one man one woman state
where we live to close our eyes
and shut our minds and wait for
the modem-router to re-dial and
get our avatar back online and
our friends back into our
multi-dimensional realer-than-time
time?
Pseudonyms solving identity changes
emerge without birth
with designer non-faces, as
now that we no longer need imperfection
or meaning or privacy
or even perception
we alter ourselves to impress our connections
with whom we connect without really connecting
by hiding as one almost nearing detection
and tip-toeing straight past
concern or reflection
(invisible firewalls at our protection)
our own walls around us
with keys we can capslock,
screening ourselves from unfriended friends,
and playfully sated by charm and ‘pretends’
that will mean next to nothing
when fantasy ends.
Where ARE the connections we make
in this digital age
that we rarely turn off since
the internet craze has become a new God
that we dial to be saved
as we sacrifice friends we once made
face to face
with those we are longing to meet
as we race across networks
with hunger and haste and
with spambots and data and viruses made
to detect and infect
and reject, just for starters,
and that’s not to mention
the ads and the logins and
passwords that lock us
from somewhere far yonder
that doesn’t exist
as we grow ever fonder
of pics and of pixels and
texts of expression
– the reality of which
we could lose in a second.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Mistakes have names we hope to never speak:
Anger, lust, jealousy, selfishness, rage.
Mistakes are words we bestow on the weak,
Or the young, as we get better with age.
Mistakes are pseudonyms for impatience:
Insecurity, coldness, raised voices.
Mistakes describe us when we don’t make sense,
Or too immature, to grasp our choices.
Mistakes are identities we mistrust:
Ego, narcissism, self-loathing, shame.
Mistakes we avoid and avoid them we must,
Or we thought, we must forgive all the same.
Mistakes may come from dissatisfaction,
Or frequently just, overreaction.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
As winds blow
And leaves scatter
As cracks show
And unions shatter
As fires rage
And trees fall
As pawns stage
And heros stall
As mud slides
And homes give way
As truth hides
And pseudonyms stay
As hope dies
And brave men stumble
As tides rise
And sandcastles crumble
We hardly even notice...
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 2:50 AM UTC
I'm hiding here
in this space where
I keep brutally exposing myself
I'm not really My self
I wear masks
and pseudonyms
and there's certain things I can't say
won't say
because I'm afraid of who will read them
and what they might learn about me
And sometimes I feel that makes
all of this
pointless
I am torn between two
equally important desires
I need to be raw here
I need to be violently open
I need to feel free to express
whatever I am feeling
for no other reason than the simple fact that
I am feeling
But I am also afraid
of the reactions I might get
afraid I might hurt someone
afraid of someone I know
learning something about me
that I don't want them to know
afraid they'll use it to hurt me somehow
I need to be wide open
but can only do it behind the safety of a mask
and even that isn't good enough
I still constantly self-censor
I have pages and pages of writings that no one
but me
has ever seen
will ever see
Even now
as I write this
I can't help but wonder at the reactions
I might get
from people I know
in real life
or people I know
in the wire
or people I've
never met
and that wondering changes me
changes my feelings
makes me second-guess
what I'm going to say
The only way my art can ever be
absolutely true
absolutely honest
absolutely Me
is if no one ever reads it
But what good is Expression
without Witness?
I need to have
an audience of strangers
for each poem
total strangers
that I will never have to see again
Or I should tag my poems on walls around town
in the middle of the night
like my little brother
(oh, gods, what if he reads this??!)
**** you
I'm leaving it in
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
Beware of them
As a lover or a friend
As a family or a foe
As a passerby or a neighbor
Because they hide as they stand on the stage
They put you on a mind-boggling maze
They set you on an endless chase
With no one else but with your own tail
Because they shout in silence
They scream using pen
Using only pseudonyms
They want you to both understand and not understand what they mean
Because they conceal as they express
Behind figure of speeches
They'll have you take a guess
When you do, you're already checkmate in chess
Beware of them
Because they are contrasting beings
Living in a world of what-ifs
Living between reality and dreams
Dreams for family, rage for a foe
Feelings for lovers, concern for a friend
Observation in a passerby, rumors from a neighbor
They turn it into words, rhyming at the end
Because they are but they are not
Because they do but they don't
Because they are cowards but they have guts
Because they will but they won't
Because they are two-faced people
Because they are at different places at the same time
Because they push and they pull
Because they have truths and they have lies
Oh beware of them
Because they're simply complicated
Because they're famous yet anonymous
Because they'll always have you choose
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
2 argue, 2 views
Division between heaven and hell to choose
For future consequence is in the present's possession
For Satan gets fueled under the influence of angel's attention
Friction in nature, Earth's pity
Running around the circumference of trust
Until it reaches out to me
For seasons to swift, in leaves' direction
For secret pseudonyms of alchemy, for tree trunks to flower knees
Pedals, poking its adversary
Intellectual reason behind each subject to agree
Thought provoking mind states of levity a broad, perpetual, atmosphere we call poetry
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
connecting….
you are now connected at 4mbps.
heart beats at 4beats per second.
connecting for…
…connection.
social networks
for social interaction.
names. nicknames. pseudonyms
all over the screen.
outbox. inbox.
feelings box.
boxed and botched.
attracted to an idea
a person living inside my computer screen
in my inbox.
are you sure you want to replace this file?
click.
i’m forgetting about you.
you with the flesh
and the warm blood.
and the beating heart.
pop-up.
this signal is poor.
i’ve been disconnected.
we’re disconnected.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 4:11 AM UTC
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than contemplating,
jailbreak daily from your ribcage,
harbor kitchen spoons to feed your escapism.
hide the entrance
under stale white hotel sheets.
Born to be an actress
with no script, you ponder this
in every mirror.
In every mirror you inherit this vacant body,
enough money to live in a studio apartment
in Washington, Vegas or anywhere
men would pay for three phone plans,
calf-length black socks and pseudonyms.
A room at the Marriot to trade scars,
connect you again with your skin.
At a political dinner
roasted hog, blueberry pie,
gilded knifes protecting the spoons.
Dog mouths are wet for scraps.
They bark beneath the table,
"Unoccupied bodies, should start charging rent.
Have you considered being a *** worker?"
"...Oh come on,
you never even turn on the lights."
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 3:54 AM UTC
You all remember the romantic fickleness of being fifteen, right?
Of course you do.
Everything was
Brand New. (But we faced the world with Bright Eyes)
Once again I’m sealing up my dried-on spilt blue dye
With a kiss between the lines of liquor boxes
Wondering in which book my nose was buried
During the moment that time casually hopped aboard
a timeless train with a clocked-out rate
Its silent departure breeding a fantastical escape.
Only the ironic forlon echo comes much later.
They don’t tell girls who waste their youth away between the lines of pseudonyms
Between the shelves of musty libraries
Every other warm summer day until dusk
Just how old you’ll feel in the reminiscence of inde-alternative and cardboard boxes.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
Tetragrams and anagrams
Pseudonyms and sleight-of-hands
Betwixt the lines lie crooked spines
Textured, gestured, shamed and shrined
Functions, Factions, fabled fiction
Starred and Crossed, they're scored and stitched in
Faeries, furies, funded theories
Quantum physics, quarks and queries
Embers bright, a red clad knight
Winged cats with cubic heights
Flux your lux, set down your labels
Time entwines both swine and angels
Mumbled murmurs, lazy learners
Beacons, bosons, carbon burners
Codecs keyed for hertz and bytes
Ancient tones 'n pheremonones
Reflect,
Refract,
Retract...
Ignite.
Our shadow selves toll ghostly bells
Building walls, erecting shelves
Saviours, slaves, enchanted knaves,
'Tis man, himself, 'creates these Hells...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
I am the odds and ends of the things/lives I collect from others
The last blank pages of your notebook finally filled
With unrelated topics, phrases, words, precious only to me
I am the afterthought, the forgotten things
I save bits and pieces of books lives torn pages out of magazines, the original hoarder
I am the value in the stuff strangers left behind
Empty shampoo bottles, still good for one more use
The last three bits of candy no one wanted
I am commitments made and lost
To maintain upkeep, to always BE THERE
I am the plain fare of your first apartment
Committed to SmartHealth, rich in none
I hide in pseudonyms and basement apartments
Lurking in shadows so darkly private that
Should you even suspect my inner world exists
I'd cut you off, shut the door in your face, asking, pleading
For you Not to Exist.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
From what I understand,
To get a poem to trend,
One hides
With pseudonyms.
Then you can
Start over,
With a newer formula,
And trending
Is the end.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
here i am, unidentified.
tho, i have an identity.
pictures of a cat, starfish
and sea shells,
a blurb, that shelters me well.
you know some,
some read and see more
but not all of me, far from all.
you could pass me by,
in the street,
not ever knowing who i am.
few have links to me.
most care not to
and that's ok
i am an ambiguity,
who, tinkers away with words, creating,
sounds to roll off the tongue, tickle the ear
and burrow and settle in the rooms of your mind.
as do,
you all,
do for
and
to me.
we are but, ships upon
a sea of words,
sailing blithely on.
sending semaphore greetings,
across great distances.
before traveling on.
identified only,
by monikers and pseudonyms,
remaining anonymous
except for style and nuances
that give small clues,
to the daily worlds,
we inhabit.
where the veiled secrets
do not dwell openly,
as they do here,
on bright white pages.
here i remain, here
i am unidentified,
bar for a nom de plume.
yet still, more than comfortable with myself.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
tell them you've got a story
and they'll listen with ears clogged
stuck on your metaphors
but too drained to ask for meanings
tell them you've got a story
and they'll talk over your voice
so instead, here you are
hiding behind pseudonyms
that sound romantic enough
for a page turn
so you write
and say that you've got a story to tell
when really, you wrote this at 11:14 pm
in your room
with the lamp bulb burning too hot
and you're making it up as you go
because you're tired
and someone must understand that
the shadows are getting to be too long
and you've still got a **** story to tell
but it's too late for stories
and too early for confessions
so you continue to write
and hope, someday
that when you say you have a story to tell
someone will listen;
really listen.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
It's still me
though I had to change
the name I've had my whole life.
Not legally of course,
but poetically
While I wish my name remembered
as one with written art.
I can't risk possibly losing
those who have my heart.
With time I've come to realize
that people can't be trusted.
They take the good and make it bad
or let it leave them rusted.
They never understand
So I remain anonymous
With simple pseudonyms
To protect myself and others
from pure and raw emotion
in case they can’t withstand
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
i.
though still in the process
himself
of being
created
god is an expert on earth.
he is just now beginning to regain his composure
after a short stint / speaking in tongues.
ii.
laymen exist
to question
what my mother’s body
cannot identify-
a specific amnesia
that attacks
her many
pseudonyms
iii.
stories keep my children perfect.
in the story of the rabbit’s mask
one finger out of every ten
is as empty
as the rabbit’s brain
iv.
to bring my first stranger
to god
I plan to use the alias
my father goes by
to pray.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Break Tiffany,
girl of the night
Holly go-lightly
pseudonyms delight.
I am catwoman
DC comics brite.
||shoo.shu||
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
Married to the mob
not in Vegas
not in Rome
don't tell Detroit I'm coming
I have my mind set
on pseudonyms in San Francisco
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:56 AM UTC
Teasing from behind
that veil of mystery
Playing with pseudonyms
And toying with my affections.
What’s in a name anyway?
It’s not the person.
I can live with a charade,
My life is a progression of charades,
A series of train cars
One deception following the next
Stopping traffic
A victim of endless inertia.
I play her game, dive into her fiction
She’s a mistress, an object of desire
Hiding from love beneath her bowler hat.
She’s a muse, stirring emotions
Inciting creation.
Constructing a flimsy edifice
To keep the world at bay
A fruitless attempt at solace
And privacy and peace
For her passion is a magnet
Anonymity is ******* by her attraction.
One cannot put a label on truth.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC