"quantify" poems
Ornery odious ordinate ostensive opulence ornate optimal
Motivity meatus meticulous morsel moribund mendacity monstrance
Lucidity lingam loquacity longevous licentious lurid languishing
Votary volition verve venery vector vauntness vast
Talismanically telepathy tantamount terrestrial tellurian transition tractive
Idolatry -ics incus ictus ichor icon icky
Yogi yowl yore yoni yerk yenta yantra
Gimpy gesticulation genre gestational glitch genuflection grandiose
Dastardly douceur denouement denigrational deplorable despicable desperate
Paltry potentate portentous plagiaristic pandemic plenipotentiary plenary
Jouncy jocular jeopardy jettison jurisprudence jaunt juxtaposition
Ramify repartee radix recital rectitude rendition repertoire
Beastly bartizan bodacious belligerent brusque blatant blasphemously
Enmity exigency exacerbation extemporaneous edifice eulogy exoneration
Zoolatry zoomorphic zilch Zephyr zoic zygosity zealotry
Sultry solace subtlety substantiation suborn subliminal sensorium
Unity ultimatum usurping unfathomable uncanny unbridled unary
***** hornswoggle horizon huckster homogeny holistic heuristic
Nugatory notch nostrum notorious nihilism nimiety nimbus
Wrathy wreak wroth wrought wrest wrangle warranty
Artistry autonomy articulation agility acuity asperity acerbity
Keeky kangaroo court kowtow kobold kleptomania kinetics kinesiology
Xylography xenophile xerophilous xylophagous xylem xanadu xenobiotic
Critically credibility critique coercion conjugational conjunctive corporeal
Queasy quasi quantum quintessence quagmire quixotic quantify
Flighty flippant flamboyance faux pas fornicatious fictitious finite
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
The complexity of coupling is an exponential increase.
No matter how perturbed life may be, we strive to linearize it,
thank you Laplace. You transform us.
It is integral to simplify life.
Like Da Vinci, Like Thoreau:
“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication”
“Our life is frittered away by detail…simplify, simplify”
Let us not differentiate between the good or the bad
the high or the low.
Life is too brief to quantify, qualify, and compare it to others.
It is yours alone. Embrace the change over time.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Note: This is a running conversation between Dom Scruffy Lobo and me (his submissive - bunny)
From the Dom
Each day I grow more in love with You
Each day I feel your presence
Each day you submit yourself to me
Each day without hesitancy
How could I be so lucky
To have found a boy so sweet
How can I grow this bond
Until we one day meet
The Wolf preys on bunny
A dance to do eternally
This Wolf devours His bunny
With love so merrily
All-in-all love so complex
But still love so simplified
To be near you
And hear you moan
To Me you give your life.
From the submissive
I wish I could tell You what Your love means to me
But that right now is an impossibility
There aren't enough words in any language that's known
To quantify these feelings You have grown
i wish i could tell You how much I love you
But that is also something I cannot do
In the language of dragons and fairy and magic
The words might be lost, truly tragic
But listen to my heart as it speaks to yours
I know Yours hears the right words by the score
The magnitude is greater, greater than great
The intensity of our love i just can't narrate
But trust and believe i'd give my life up for You
Trust and believe serve and obey i'll always for You.
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 5:22 PM UTC
Finite fictitious fornicatious faux pas flamboyance flippant flighty
Quantify quixotic quagmire quintessence quantum quasi queasy
Corporeal conjunctive conjugational coercion critique credibility critically
Xenobiotic xanadu xylem xylophagous xerophilous xenophile xylography
Kinesiology kinetics kleptomania kobold kowtow kangaroo court keeky
Acerbity asperity acuity agility articulation autonomy artistry
Warranty wrangle wrest wrought wroth wreak wrathy
Nimbus nimiety nihilism notorious nostrum notch nugatory
Heuristic holistic homogeny huckster horizon hornswoggle *****
Unary unbridled uncanny unfathomable usurping ultimatum unity
Sensorium subliminal suborn substantiation subtlety solace sultry
Zealotry zygosity zoic Zephyr zilch zoomorphic zoolatry
Exoneration eulogy edifice extemporaneous exaserbational exigency enmity
Blasphemously blatant brusque belligerent bodacious bartizan beastly
Repertoire rendition rectitude recital radix repartee ramify
Juxtaposition jaunt jurisprudence jettison jeopardy jocular jouncy
Plenary plenipotentiary pandemic plagiaristic portentous potentate paltry
Desperate despicable deplorable denigrational denouement douceur dastardly
Grandiose genuflection glitch gestational genre gesticulation gimpy
Yantra yenta yerk yoni yore yowl yogi
Icky icon ichor ictus incus -ics idolatry
Tractive transition tellurian terrestrial tantamount telepathy talismanically
Vast vauntness vector venery verve volition votary
Languishing lurid licentious longevous loquacity lingam lucidity
Monstrance mendacity moribund morsel meticulous meatus motivity
Optimal ornate opulence ostensive ordinate odious ornery
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
the world is too bright.
i am blinded by false smiles and laughs strained to reach that falsetto note.
that preconceived notion that paradise of the land brings paradise of the mind.
sand is still sand, and water is still water,
less we quantify their quality by purity and color.
sand is still sand and water is still water,
and i am still me.
the world is too bright,
so i filter it into sepia tones gentler to the mind's eye and swim to where the water meets the clouds.
i am drowning,
but not from the ocean's relentless caresses,
but from the world's relentless stresses:
beauty that is measured and calculated,
saturated with standards that burn like the sun and are as intangible as its rays,
a paradise built on sand as quick as it is to judge.
so i swim to where the water meets the clouds.
where the water is still water,
and i am still me.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
Can a Love song be used twice?
I love you’s and the reminiscent blues,
do the rhythm and blues remember the
ones you loose ?
This reminded me of you.
I use the lyrical hues
of this fine tune to put into words my feelings for you.
Expiry date.
Can a hummingbird still sing
when your number no longer rings?
I wonder
Nat King Cole’s somber stardust melody still
haunts my reverie.
Can I really vow to another with the words I solemnly devoted to my past lover?
As seasons change
so to does my musical range.
Yet a love song , is still a Love song.
To my future love,
at times my hearts desire cannot create words which quantify that;
of a lyrical tune and a lyre.
A Love song.
Love in the present.
Beyond the fond memories of things the lovers dreamt,
Love remains in all things spent
within life’s timely symphonies.
Oct 14, 2022
Oct 14, 2022 at 7:34 AM UTC
a unique energy that could quantify as a telepathic discharge upon death
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Early on
it was clear
I was coming nowhere in this race
and so my eyes began to wander,
pick out the daisies in the grass,
note the sweep of the horizon
and -
stop.
A long time,
the thunder of feet
fading into the distance,
leaving breeze,
bees
and other tranquilities.
Until a small man
in a tight suit
approached me with a clipboard.
"Ah," he said,
sycophantic smile
splitting his tanless dinnerplate
of a face,
"I see we have another
"like-minded soul!
"We'd like you to join
"the non-racing society!
"You can look at daisies all day long
"and at the end of every day
"we quantify who has done the best!"
And I, sad,
sat,
and wished the sky
would swallow me
whole.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 12:30 PM UTC
I posted this poem a few days after I joined HP. As is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions. With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked. Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week. So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.
March 2012
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
*"There are no words to describe how beautiful she is,
or how special she is, or my love for her.
To put these things into words would be to define them,
To quantify them, which means to limit them.
There would be a beginning and an end.
There is no definition fitting, nor any limit,
nor beginning or end to her beauty,
or to how special she is, or my love for her.
my love for her."*
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 5:35 AM UTC
*To you, love was about multitudes
To me, love was inordinate
“I love you” I would say
“How much” you would ask
-Lang Leav
You like specifics, you like to hear
How much I do, how much I can
But darling, my love is inordinate
I couldn’t quantify, it’s too lavish
Sometimes unconscionable
And multitudes is never enough
If you ever ask me again
I’ll ask you to count the star
On every galaxy
Until you loses track
I’ll ask you to count every grain of sand
On every ocean floor
Until you ran out of numbers
I’ll ask you to listen to my heartbeat
On every second of the day
Until the infinite of infinities ends
And if ever you asked me again
Of how much I love you
That’s my definition of “how much”*
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
I quantify the challenges I face every day,
by simple math.
Drought, starvation, disease and death.
They still never really add up.
Doorways to the nether neither proved,
nor disproved my sanctity.
So I trudge on.
The holy portals of tomorrow still guiding me.
Now, I’m not making any choices.
They are defined by a divination of the ancient form.
I just listen to the voices.
Bones and dice turn men to mice.
My situation defined simultaneously as I transform.
From a man to a mouse,
and still human.
Well hardly,
but we're not here to read of that.
Just close your wanting eyes and see the prophecies.
Both at the end and at the beginning.
A fresh start to my advances.
This is the end and the beginning.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Skimming through the water, like a bird on wing.
Feeling the currents flowing, water spilling along my flanks.
Surging into the deep sea, searching for sunken ships,
Lost treasures to those above, merely decrepit scenery below.
Perhaps, more, to the sealife that shelters there.
This fantastic ability, to relate to earth's final mysteries in the deep.
Granted me, through a fluke of nature, gills filtering,
Scales protecting, tail and fins propelling forward
To ever deeper realms.
Hardly noticing the increasing pressures
Feeling tides pulling, seeing unfathomed sea creatures.
Appreciating the beauty and the power of the deep sea.
Triton may reside here, only stories to those above.
But the mysterious, deepness of this realm, begs belief in other gods.
Continuous exploration of this vast world,
Only brings me a small portion of its bounty.
Birth, life, death, cycling forever.
Brilliant design of creatures and systems,
Only glimpsed from above.
Denied to those who seek to categorize and quantify.
Life is not averages, statistics, and clinical review.
Being judged in labs by coated strangers.
Life indeed is deep, resounding, complex in every detail.
Microcosms of universes existing in harmony
Beneath waves brushing the sky.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
I'm trying to find a path.
The one that leads to sleep and straight into my dreams.
I'm thinking that if find it, quantify it, and twist it enough, they might become reality.
I might be able to run past the nightmares and the conflicts and the insanity.
My path is indestructible and it attracts my feet.
I don't have to think
It's like the ground is moving beneath me,
like a black strip of ground is moving beneath me on repeat.
Everyone is suddenly walking on a path
Everyone is on different pieces of ground,
on their own black path
moving beneath them
so they don't have to think.
If these paths don't touch, they don't make eye contact.
They are all together physically,
but they're in their own worlds...
...Who am I kidding, we're all in our own worlds!
And here I am trying to decide which way to go when
I realize it's already been decided.
I'm moving forward on this stupid black path that never changes.
I find myself looking around at the blank walls, the blank faces,
the plugged in faces! The darting eyes avoiding contact.
There's something wrong here.
It hits me every time, full blown.
There's a reason why I avoid the gym.
I'd rather run outside and let the world
take me in.
I'd rather be able to jump if I wanna, or sing,
or say something to the people around me.
Or escape the people around me!
Find a place where I can truly be.
On my own.
So many people are afraid of being alone.
I want this generation to see, to explore, to fall
and get up
and all the things like making forts and traps and seeing
off the top of a mountain -
from outside your car ...
Guys, there are stars in some places.
I'm telling you, there are things worth seeing out there.
I'm telling you what needs to happen.
You need to get up off your seat, unplug your eyes from the screen,
and go discover for yourself where you end up one day.
**** this path of perfection, **** all the shortcuts
and technology and craziness,
this culture of disconnection is
literally
driving
people
insane!
Start asking yourself questions and you'll realize Wikipedia can't tell you everything.
Peel away from your text and you might notice a blossoming tree.
The world changes.
Daily.
It will change, daily, for the rest of your life.
And I don't know about you, but I'd rather not let it pass me by.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number me this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify,
limitless.
March 2012
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
You are beautiful.
The words whispered without doubt.
Each syllable slipping through smoothly,
as if somehow shaping this statement supports
and supplements its substantiality.
You...are beautiful.
A falling phrase fathering the feeling,
that every fleeting fear has found itself futile and foreign.
Until you find yourself yielding and yearning to yip,
as you did in the yesteryears of youth.
But these words are not spoken with enough clarity.
These words are taken as a compliment meant to leave you blushing.
They are understood as a revelation encountered after you are found to be the victor
of a superficial comparison with those around you.
As if each attractive feature earns you additional points,
with a judge that can be bought with each glance and smile and touch.
As if each insecurity that you feel,
or each person that you think is more alluring,
can somehow subtract from the meaning of the statement.
Your beauty cannot be compared.
The beauty that you contain cannot be explained
to joking friends when they ask where you fit in on a 10-scale.
You cannot put numbers next to the hope and insight that you so freely give.
There are not enough hedons to quantify it.
You are beautiful.
I will repeat it until you think it echoes off the walls surrounding you.
Until every time you look into a mirror you believe you have x-ray vision,
and you can see the warmth of your soul,
with the clarity of vision that you have granted me.
Until you realize that every smile that appeared,
every laugh that escaped,
and every brief happy dance that was ever done in your presence
was caused by the beauty that rests within you.
You...are beautiful.
Wielding the talent to brighten a day with a single smile,
the power to make all of the worries and doubts in a person's mind disappear
with a single thoughtful statement,
a capacity for selflessness that allows no cynic to doubt your motives,
and the ability to make others realize their own beauty
just by interacting with you.
The world is more beautiful because you are a part of it.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
What is an American?
Is it decided by the timber of our voice,
the strength in our limbs,
the blood in our veins,
or the color of our skin?
Tell me,
for I do not understand,
unfold your thesis,
inundate my mind with statistics,
be it quantum blood measures,
origin or sociological constructs of the creature in question.
Tell me,
what it is to be an American?
This umbrella term,
I just do not understand,
is it to be a thief?
A country founded on stolen land,
and stolen labor,
sage bushed bills,
backed by gilded structures and systems of debate and seizure,
is being an American drowning in leisure?
What does this term mean?
I find myself confused,
it is difficult to quantify the qualitative,
and breath life into lifeless chiseled forms,
found in squares and plazas throughout,
a country split by hard wired ferocity,
quicksand laden dividing lines,
the vocal deciding what it is to be,
and what it isn't.
*Careful lad,
there is such a thing as too much,
too much individuality,
so put up your hair,
put away the paint,
put away that sign,
sheath your weapon,
old boy,
this isn't your fight,
and besides,
what can you do with a toy?*
I don't know what America is,
land of the free,
where is that?
I see only industry,
a dying morality,
drowned in ethics,
a protestant-core built on overt inequality.
What does it mean to be an American?
I can't tell you what it means to you,
only what it means to me,
and so I say dust off the document upon which this term was built,
and realize that the past is not what you should use,
just as anything else of import,
use judgement,
agency,
the ability to choose,
uphold the freedom that suffocates in the back of your mind,
to the flame inside your chest,
to the weakness in your legs,
down against the sole of your shoes.
America is a country founded on rebellion,
a little man,
underdog all grown up,
and now he's the one throwing punches,
a story paralleled by Davidic tales,
and though he may not be perfect,
and is often reviled,
I love him still,
his rough edges,
for we are still part of the experiment,
ongoing,
the American dream.
Though the gates may be weighed down,
the hinges rusted,
a country of sojourners,
soon a country of minorities,
cultural pluralism,
though flawed,
I like it better this way,
a techni-colored mirage of what once was,
and if we must meet our end,
so be it,
guide me home,
for is it not true that all roads eventually wind home?
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
I cannot give what I do not have.
I had it once.
I was created/born with it (I think).
I lost it, first time diagnosed,
Most recent when insane,
Do NOT lose trust in your own mind,
I cannot give what I do not have.....
My own mind.........
Doubt asks multiple questions,
I have zero percent answers now,
I know once it gets to less than zero
The negative space will have won.....
And I will have changed.......
But without your current positive space
Within negative space I cannot
Continue with you.
......here we are and I am friends
With
Doubt.......
I face everyone everyday.......
(lots of dots - no negative signs except for this break previously)
Face with Doubt - acceptance, reluctance, no choice - ance :-)
I Learn to question every thought and re-question the motivation behind,
Behind (no mistake) the thought (but my mind slows, I know)
If motivation is OK/acceptable (i.e. non harming - i injured/destroyed insects on the steps to my current housing - I tried avoidance but without guarantee - drink helps ease this guilt also)
Then if the thought will not result in negative spacial harm ( I have no way of quantify-ing this until after the fact but it helps future decision making - (when I can remember :-( )
but again i lack future projection skills - anyone who reads this with whom I have never physically interacted with - how am I (i) supposed to know the difference/change - too many ****ing strange coincedences in my life have helped my current world environment view - but I digress - maybe i should end this :-) - night night (in Eire) and no more beer :-) listening to 'nice' (personal intrepretation) music now - stop typin....... )
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
we went to philly and it rained. i spent most of the time running through puddles and taking blurry pictures, of trees, of the sky, of beautiful big buildings that seemed so strange to my coldgreyconcrete eye. it was weird. i liked it.
i think flowers are ******** you see we went to philly and i saw flowers, which was strange to me-cities dont have flowers, you see. we have night markets and the smell of that weird boiled egg tea and peoplepeoplepeople and definitely not flowers (except in the new year because of course there are flowers in the flower market and also sometimes up alleyways there'll be a scarybutnice old lady selling them, maybe with her grandson there too). but regardless of what cities should have and what cities should not have, there were flowers. and they were bright and many and i stared at them long and hard and accusing and inquisitive. they didnt stare back. and so, i repeat, flowers are ********
so yeah we went to philly but i feel kindofbad because we didnt really go to philly we more went to one-no two, three? (if the parking garage counts)-streets because we were there for this one restaurant but i saw this one place with a bunch of flags and some buildings and took a photo with a random landmark so it counts right? (i think thats all cities can be for some people, walk down nathan road visit a night market shop at pacific place maybe go up to the peak and youve seen all of hong kong right? its rather easy to quantify a city if you put it that way i suppose) but no, as a fellow city dweller i know more than most that a city exists in the cracks between pavements and small market stalls and the lightness in your chest when you become a regular at starbucks and people go out of their way to help you even if theyre busy, that a city exists when you can walk on the bustling pavements like theyre your own hardwood floors and look at an office tower and go-oh samantha works here and thats what a city really is.
and that's pretty much it. we went to philly.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 5:53 AM UTC
Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,
And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,
Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,
Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.
A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.
But a poet, a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt
To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.
And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,
Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile
Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet, a poet will spend lifetimes trying
To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.
And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others
That the poet will feel only rage,
And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,
For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
Years.
What does a year mean, when there seem to be so many?
We read about them, cast them aside like old photos
Nobody cares to see
And you've already uploaded them so why does it matter?
Occasionally we'll select a year and savor its memory,
And it is the sweet, deep taste of 1997. Or was it '98...?
Sometimes it's hard to tell, sometimes it doesn't matter.
Years can be like lakes, small on a map but to the hapless swimmer,
Boundless.
We struggle to rationalize, to quantify, to measure
But how do you really measure a year?
How about love?
Yeah but after we saw Rent together you didn't talk to me for a week,
And when you did, It was to say that your mother was dying.
It is with all this in mind
That I see you from across the Deli section, head bowed,
Trying to make the all-important decision
Between one low-fat, sodium-free organic granola
And another.
I wonder what the years have done to you,
How they've kept you company,
Who they've dropped on your doorstep.
My imagination fills in what occasional party encounters
And awkward facebook birthday messages cannot.
I pause for a moment- you've chosen your granola and moved on-
And wonder if I should do the same.
I do not know if you saw me,
Or even if you would recognize me,
But something keeps me from going up to you.
It is the weight of years, and how they have put a silent barrier between us
Deeper and wider than the biggest lake.
And all those years, in forgotten photographs and smudged journal entries,
Each one becomes a story of the people it changed,
Of a woman in a grocery store
And the man she used to love.
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
I would give you everything,
yes, every piece of me,
and wish to give you more.
I wish I could describe it to you,
the amount of love I feel.
Maybe quantify it, so
we can visualize it.
Is it a million, a hundred million?
Maybe infinity and more.
The word "love" is just not strong
enough. So how do I tell you?
Adoration, and passion, and lustfulness,
and fondness. All of these words, no,
none of them are powerful enough.
So maybe my own word is
an order, for who is to say
I cannot?
Lishvilnesh!
Hesmelah!
Bakeldohm!
I cannot describe the amount
of love I have for you, so
it must be lishvilnesh! I'm
overcome by hesmelah! I cannot
contain the bakeldohm!
Ah, but it is not so easy,
for it would take hundreds of years to
attach such weight to a word, and
infinitely many more
to attach my feelings
for you.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
the post-mortem will say:
sudden cardiac arrest
(medicine cannot quantify
death by a broken heart).
i thought it was sweet,
the arrhythmia you gave me
(at least the butterflies
dissolved harmlessly in acid).
you knew me, invasively,
a mortician's secret autopsy
(you counting my scars, ribs,
was it more habit than desire?)
curiosity is what killed me;
mine and yours, ill-matched
(i would have preferred cruelty
to your cool detachment).
the post-mortem has found:
i died of natural causes
(which makes you, my heart-
breaker, a force of nature)
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 7:15 AM UTC
this poem has been a long time in the making,
it's not easy like stating, how the sky is blue,
or the grass is green
it's more like how I feel so BIG,
but never seen,
how I loathe that girl in the mirror, and her taunting, nasty screams
she is evil
as she pokes your sides, laughs at that belly you try desperately to hide
calls you chunky, just look at those thighs
girl in the mirror, so full of self hate
your mind is such a powerful thing to waste
on thoughts solely existing to enforce doubt and a need to keep pace
with those matchstick, anorexic figures
always shoved in your face
when it comes to beauty, when did less become more?
when did real, wholesome girls get traded for the *****
when did your self worth become something you could pay for?
when did being beautiful become dependent on if you shopped at 'that' store?
they used to say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and I've noticed as I've gotten older
that you cannot quantify beauty based on what we see
'cause this world will look a little different to you
then it does to me, and there's no cookie cutter
labeled "beautiful girl", no molded shape to uphold
so big, tall, slender, small, dressed in rags so fine, or dressed to the nines
you're all gold
so long as you're sold
on the fact that you are beautiful!
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC
how many emptied cups of coffee?
how many crumpled papers littering around?
how many broken bottles of beer?
how many cigarette stubs flattened on the ground?
how many stonewashed mornings?
how many sleepless nights, empty and dull?
how many will it take to forget you?
tell me, how many?
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC