"rambles" poems
I hate myself
No really, I mean it.
I know you don't believe me for how often that I say it
But I'm stuck with my thoughts who claim it.
They tell me I'm not good enough
Too stupid to think
Go ahead grab another drink
and forget who you are cos you know you won't get very far
With this disease that has consumed you.
But this can't be diagnosed
And there's no cure to be found
So go on and tell yourself just how weak you are
Cos it's all in your head
When you say you want to be dead.
They call it self-loathing, and it's the greatest fear I've know
The darkest spots my mind takes me to
Why are all the artists the sad ones?
We feel your pain and then create
While carrying the burden of our own.
I shouldn't have said anything
No one listens to an artist for they have nothing to say
A poet rambles while general discourse fill the spaces
And I am left alone in my head
With the original thought that prompted this piece
I wished I was dead.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
You’re a sycophant for a selfie.
selfish daily rants are of the plenty
up here.
(Up where?)
out there in the world wide-
who cares it’s everywhere.
There’s no room for you to hide.
so beware! and be wary of what you confide.
I’ve seen words on their heads and their intent on its side.
Your rambles are a gamble, every un-thorough thought
is a stance you take with pride
on something you were never taught.
Did you go find it out by yourself?
I doubt that. Just loud chat from those sat out around you
was enough to change your point of view. so will you choose?
Or will it not really be you? did you construe this opinion or did it construe yours?
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
1510
How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn’t care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears—
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity—
5.7k
Words upon words spoke in a rapid manner
I listen to him spit out physics
Intelligent, stunning, confusing, and funny
He rambles on about these numbers.
A calculation for this,
A theory for that.
It can explain everything he claims
Science,
It can always be broken down to a science.
I hold on to his every word, and just wonder what equation
Can tell me how he feels.
What does he want
What does he need?
Will he ever have an interest...an interest in me?
I don't mean to sound nerdy
I don't mean to sound cliche
But I believe there is chemistry between us
Our minds are bonding.
Sadly there is no science behind the human emotion.
So I will wait
And try to analyze this boy myself.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain
We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn
And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain
Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out
If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through
Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds
They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get
And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky
And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long
The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up
Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on
Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they **** the wheat
Discover where they lay
And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest
In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round
A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay
3.3k
(For Harry Clifton)
I HAVE heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
Until the town lie bearen flat.
All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,'
Camel-back; horse-back, ass-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.
Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instmment.
Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty slope where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
3.4k
I used to stay up till 6am tying different lengths of material around my neck.
I used to stay up till 5am trying to forget how to breathe for a little while.
I used to stay up till 4am and wonder what you were doing with her at that time.
But now it's 4am and I'm happy.
I met a stranger two days ago and he seems to have completely erased the bad feelings.
The memories.
He's a blank white page.
And my 3am scribbles are no longer pleading messages to god begging for a release.
They are rambles about how this man makes me feel.
And ****
It's pretty wonderful.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
oh my darling!
you make my head spin ever so wildly
drown me in wine
yell that you love me!
as i trace a master piece on your back with my fragile fingers
and they'll call us both mad
the lovers that danced until their feet crumbled
( though you claim you cannot dance )
as we will disregard them all, humanity, and however cliche our midnight rambles may become
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
my left wrist is stinging
and the choir's stopped singing
i'm trying my best not to let these scars rise
because all i've got are butcher knives
and it wouldn't be very nice
to make a mess in someone else's kitchen
i don't know where the rags are i can't
clean up the puddles
puddles are pretty pretty
they're pretty good mirrors
they're pretty unclear
(you can't really see)
and the best part is they
show a more distorted
illusion of me
a version i thought i would never be able to see.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
lights out.
blankets on.
eyes closed.
then there's ME.
lights off,
blankets on,
eyes open.
dreams,
behind closed doors.
they escape,
when the doors flutter open.
then there's ME.
dreams,
guests not captives of sleep.
they escape,
behind closed doors.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I pulled back the thicket
Brambles and thorns
Bordering my mind
Inch by inch
To let you slip inside
Hi
I hope you don't mind
The pestilent storm of neuroses
The angry winds whipping around
Eroding my cognition
(They all say
I ought to stop overthinking
They don't know the half of it)
Pardon the mess
The litter of apprehensions
Flotsam and jetsam of rumination
Tangles of tangents
Smog of chimeric thoughts
Sticky rambles festering in the corner
Acidic drizzle
Of obstinate wayward tunes
Insecurity and fear
Eating into the pillars and foundations
If you don't mind terribly
The clatter of sleet
The noisome fumes
The skittering vermin
The sheer clutter
That would make packrats shake their heads
If you don't mind
At all
Would you stay?
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
Butterflies do stammer
on first dates.
Thinking of what,
What to say.
My head rambles.
My breath abates.
My voice scrambles.
My face straight.
I throw smiles of my youth
Tell stories wide and bright
My subtle lies of clean truth
With utter hopes to placate
My eyes dart, my breath aghast
This moment to be
of our future's past
This moment to be
of our first date.
We meet
We greet
We hide our anxiety
Wading through tension
Behind smiles and drinks
We tread lightly
With humorous winks
Passing off stories of our past
Sitting composed at full attention
I listen intently
But you catch me stare
Hmmm, with each soft word
We calm the air.
Anticipating discovery
I peek into you.
Opening myself
To reveal what's new.
You smile freely
Clenching fingers tight
Butterflies take flight.
Hoping what might
You peek into me
Saying no to what could be.
My head disappears.
My eyes dream.
My shiny veneer
Begins to hear.
A flutter begins flight
As I seek your light.
My chest slowly warms
To glows of moonbeams.
My heart slowly endears
As I faintly hear
My butterfly's subtle screams.
We attract hints of passion
By sharing what's true.
For all this fragile effort
I hope for date number two.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
with half closed eyes, dry and prickly eye lid shuts
i can barely see the one who rambles in a classroom filled with chattering chickens.
so there i think of the swans by the lake, in switzerland, they were served strawberries, cranberries and oranges for dinner.
white heart shaped necks in flirtation and in-between twirls a strawberry orange smoothie. when i think of them, they seem unusually stunning, like never before.
a month later than when swans had their first strawberries I saw
they came to the markets here
several swan bite like packages
expensive as one crown swan can be
again in class.
the same swans came to my mind. only half dead still chewing on pieces of papaya. it is sad.
the task was to think of something sad.
only they seem to have sat in the strawberry cranberry mush they have pawed while in heat of mating. they are turning pink.
to be a swan in switzerland
you would get more sensation and meaning
than to be existing in this so called class among headless chickens.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
Lizard King, on the bar, from rooftops
and over your legacy you took a swirling a ****
drunk on blood with a treacherous witch high off acid.
Grabbing your junk and exposing your genitals onstage
passing out, failing the test of life and yet making the grade.
You became and overweight bearded *******
weary and heavy like your poetic incoherent rambles
with a voice like Sinatra when you really wanted to,
like your average intoxicated uncle when you gave less of a ****
in the studio, recording frustrations while getting ********
Opening the doors to the eyes of delusion and distortion
the crystal ship sailed without causing so much confusion
as to who you are, who you were and who you aspired to be
the next great American wordsmith,
“Light My Fire” is a fine tune, please sing it for me,
without cussing me out, calling me a sellout and everything in between.
Breaking through to the other side of madness
wheels falling off riding by your roadhouse blues
some might say Val Kilmer made an even better you
a mirror image of the decimated natives of your youth.
Abruptly moved to France to be the next Pepe Le Pew
but instead took a ****** bath to the afterlife.
Some loved your talent, others thought you made a prettier corpse
so tonight I’ll toast your legacy of leather pants
frat boy good looks, ****** off rants, Raiders on the Storm
and checking out right after Hendrix you inconsiderate ******
I still love you though, with my heart crossed
dearly dearest quintessential *******
Jim Morrison.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
I sneak a peek through the bullet hole in my *****
kitchen's window,
steel bars prevent escape.
I gaze upon piles of worthless junk thoughtlessly
discarded on the asphalt lot below,
where children run and play.
Momma drinks to another day's sorrows, from a
fingerprinted glass,
surrounded by the colored bottles from yesterday's
celebration.
I quietly walk to the living room
where a suffering Jesus weeps silently upon the
silver-flowered wallpapered wall,
I swear sometimess he speaks to me in a whisper,
telling me,
"Don't despair."
Arguing voices cursing the misfortunes of a drug deal
gone bad.
Break! The silence outside my living room's door.
Dungeon gray....
Heavy as steel.....
Countless locks.....
A piercing scream echoes,
goes ignored,
then fades....
I sit alone upon our dusty brown couch,
as Momma rambles on senselessly in the other room,
an alcholics tune.
I stare once again to the suffering Jesus hanging hopelessly
upon the wall,
as the night draws near and the light as dim as my
dreams?
I whisper a tearful prayer for hope,
within this ghetto's
gloom.....
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Writhing, the screeching leviathan demands
And I cave to save the aching from tricky time slopes
Pained craving
Wavering but
Hit and
It’s all loosey goosey goodness
Sensing silent magma pulse, whoosh the tummy tingles
Droopy ears gape-face giggle no more nowadays
A stern turn in old age the silly phase of
Too bright, neon common numb tongue rambles
Secedes into introspective
Crowded walks, broken talks strung into threats clustered and
Flung like monkey **** at many-stabbed ego, Brutus?
Strangers will eat you
The professor thinks I’m funny because
I know the answers in class
The other day Dingus
And Whoseewhatsee tried to alley mug and hurt and end
And money!
No, rocked nose ran dude! Fine
Trying not to fear the outdoors, though
The arthropods and phantoms tell me ***** jokes
And not to eat my candy
Books melt into soupy mercurial elixir
I slurp them and belch
Educating myself in a barn ******* knowledge
On loud faces; empty meat
Where you can hear the jingly metal
Thing when you shake it, it’s dead no flower
They don’t always like me
But
I’ve got the jeepers creepers behind my peepers
And a million lightyears to burn
Truth is worth dying
Four **** sow
Izzeny thing these daze
Maybe it was a bust from the start but there’s
Always art
Quieting the plague that revealed
Not so good after all
Tiny thorns and all-consuming
Waves of red-get-out wrenching, gutted like a fish
Overcome, that never went away or found
A place to sit
Memories arthritic grind a grim gray whetting stone
Reduce with juice-cloud, grape teeth cough will never find a home
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
The slam poet in cords, in denim,
rambles from neon beer haven
to flybuzz brothel, cracking quiet
jokes about soup to shiny junebugs
in the relentless moonlight.
One hundred dollars in thirty-five bills
slowly retreat from wallet
toward water-cut whiskey.
He’s got a chapbook widely
available at frozen yogurt shops
across the metro; he’s got a
tour in the works, tri-county,
every middle school from
Shawnee to Seminole; he’s
got a collection of ex-girlfriends,
made up almost entirely of wizened lesbians;
he’s got an MFA from UNC Wilmington,
and he shouts this more than speaks this
from his treacherous barstool to the sleepy bartender.
One of the girls, she takes him upstairs,
and to her he says, Your freckles—islands
in the sea of your milk-white skin.
The night passes, warehouses are razed,
and he watches the loft apartments emerge.
The food trucks come. He parks beside them,
typing poems made to order out of his trunk. The
money flows in, crumpled and sweaty and
in one-dollar denominations. The Old Fashions
transfigure into Old English. And in his pocket
thesaurus he looks for a word. It’s not vagrant,
nor vagabond. It’s not homeless, nor wayward.
He lies in the long shadow of a Midwestern sunset,
starved and shaking. Up from the blackened
city shrubs comes an indifferent breeze and
just as he thinks the word Pauper, he dies one
on the corner of 23rd and Western.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
I met a girl who couldn’t keep eye contact for more than three seconds;
She puts her palms in front of her face
A bit higher than her nose
So she could see you through her fingers,
So that
Her voice
A bit dim,
Can bounce on the walls she now builds
And reflects back to her,
Giving her time to rethink her words
Over and over and over and over
Until she makes sure that
Every type of person surrounding her
Would not blow bombs under her white sheets
Destroy her heart,
And shatter her soul,
Till she has no strength to carry her hands
And hold her palms as barriers for her protection.
I met a girl with red brown hair,
She had two thin lines of blue under her eyes
Because oceans could draw attention
To their beauty,
And under beauty
Lies her mess,
The doors could open a gate way to the fire that’s inside
While she only reveals sparkles
In the split seconds between every word
That she rambles on,
Because if she stopped talking
It would be silent enough
For her to listen to her inner voice,
And her inner voice is never pleased.
I met a girl with a wide smile and a sense of humor,
But she apologizes after every joke
And freezes after every laughter,
Thinking of how many mistakes she might have made
Thinking of how to fix them
Thinking if anybody noticed
No one ever did.
I met a girl with a silent giggle,
Her bangs strategically lie over her eyes
To cover the curvature of her emotions,
The lines she creates on her forehead
And inside her mind,
The shy lyrics that she sings alone
Swaying her body to a jimmy Hendrix
That broke her security systems
And unchained her
Till it was possible to move.
I met a girl,
Who knows a lot more than she needs to
Who works a lot more than she has to
Who loves a lot more than possible;
She lifts up the world around her
So she can forget how far down she lies,
She runs away from herself
To hide under buses and trains
Making sure everything was okay;
Everything is not okay.
I met a girl,
And she was called confidence
I met a girl,
And she was called insecurity
I met a girl,
Who was called social consciousness;
I met a girl
Who was called society
And that girl was a killer.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
We don't see how much we are blessed
Until we see another in distress
I sat down next to this man on the train
Dark shades at 8 pm
Walker on his right hand
He was a blind man
Sitting next to his wife who was able to see with both eyes
Two different visions but one sight
Two different worlds collide
He held her hand with love
Far from a strong grip,
he didn't depend on her to see
When they spoke his words hit deep
He's a visionary that can't see
He whispered in her ears
Then she blushed and smiled
That's what she wants to hear....
hesitantly
Asked him to explain this love to me
He said words can describe
This woman right here is my beautiful wife
Indeed beautiful she is
As he sat there and described her physical appearance to me
As if he can see
The color of her eyes how they were as blue as the sky,
the way she did her hair in a ponytail,
The way her nose is shaped outwardly
And how her lips are the size of his index and middle finger combined
He kept on
On The way her head tilts when he rambles bout her beauty
On how one eyes is smaller than the other when she laughs
The way she flicks her hair when she's mad
Then said but that's not love my son
I described her to you because I've touched her, felt her
You see my son I love her
My greatest gift was to be blind
Because I know her
See beyond the physical
I know her
I can dream up the perfect woman and she probably won't even come close to her
I can tell her emotions when she speaks
I don't need to see her cry
I understand when she's sick
I know how she feels by the fragrance of her skin
I just don't hear her I listen too
Her heart beat when I'm close
Her heart beat when I'm gone
That there my son is love
I don't need vision
This right here is my beautiful wife
"This stop is 191 st street" the conductor announced
He stood and she followed
He held her hand with love
Far from a strong grip, he didn't depend on her to see
All day in mind the story resides
How much I wish I was blind
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
All the time we spend with ourselves
yet we never stop to spend any time
to wind
down
never get to know ourselves
expecting someone will come along
to do that for us
using other people
to learn who we are
leavings scars
where we should glow.
I should know
yet here I go
finding the next excuse
the next vice
the next moment
for validation
exaltation
when all we ever completely
have
is ourselves.
It's always about the crash
and the burn
we yearn for the pain
stand nothing to gain
but we learn to count down
until the next broken crumble
silently stumbling
leaving me guessing
about all the things I'm repressing
just trying to make it
second by second
watering down the mornings with my tears
and you wonder why I sleep during the day.
I have no place in my existence
for guilt over not doing
the same **** thing everyone else does
I am odd and I am proud
I have walked a long path
been through ****
but came out past it
that is all life is
moment to moment
but I give myself allowance
for **** ups
mistakes
relapses
it's bound to happen
but staying true
is all I can do
everything else will come to me in time.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 6:07 AM UTC
Flee the Ghetto
Times and Motions
Whirls and Swirls
Around the universe
we twirls
Great Space is black
all pinpoint lights
So cold and bleak
through all the night
Our best minds sit
and stare in awe
In altars, perched
on mountains tall
Seeking vistas,
Planets fine
Warm and wet
With Oceans Brine
Pure, swept With winds
fresh and new
A Paradise,
unblemished dew.
For we must flee
This planet small
Too many we
and soon the fall
Is eminent
if not we go
and refuge find
Pray God bestow
While we have time
To start anew
To try again
for we were fools
And ruined the place
gave us in Love
God’’s great gift
from Heav'n above
Dear Earth, fair home
All blessings be
Beloved of Man
On bended knee
We bow to you
You fleck of rock
You grain of sand
That bears our flock
Our precious home
for man to stand
and look around
and understand
How fragile’s life
A gift so rare
For all we’ve found
Of life Is here
So search brave priests
of this new age
of our demise
you are the sage
Please Save us guys*
you honored few
To you we cry
it’’s up to you
For we poor clods
have fought, and ruined
This grant from God
Destroyed too soon.
Find us a home
Another womb
Another Harbor
Please find one soon
For us to raise
our children strong
and try to teach them
right from wrong
That black or white
means not at all
that violence
precedes a fall
Too many players
Too small a stage
A madness caused
A screaming rage.
Our history
A tale of woe
Of endless wars
Tombstones in rows.
Our weapons might
Now reaches all
no refuge from
the killing fall
You made those things
Those killer toys
Now turn your brains
Look outward boys!
We need your help
and God’’s as well
This fate to turn,
This ride to hell
For we have learned
to dread the sight
of timeless darkness
endless night
We need some friends
To fight and play
Another species
Help us pray
Or we will end.
and all will turn
to endless blackness
Hell returned.
Justa Civileon 2003
* gender neutral on the "guys"
Not one of my uppiest rambles but I never was a light person
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 7:12 AM UTC
Some moments are regretful
Others are embarrassing
Some moments are life changing
Others are forgetful
But every decade or so
A moment rambles by
That is the first sip of wine
The first love caught an eye
The last kiss before you die
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC