"recovers" poems
I wake as your friend You wake as my lover
I speak as your lover You speak as my friend
I act as your possession You are my possesion
I rebel as your cover A means to an end
I hurt for your compassion You live for my acceptance
I injure for your respect Though it's never been withheld
I confide for your emotion You crave my direction
I give and you collect Never will you rebel
This is madness This is Sparta
This is insanity This is the price of exellence
I can't be everything for you I am your everything
You can't be everything for me I am magnificence
You treat everyone the same I am fair and righteous
As a friend, yet as a lover And yet you seek more
And it's a cruel, cruel game Dare you grow capricious
From your twisted love, no one recovers You'll become one I abhor
I am done You are confused
(I am never done) And I will not calm you
I am sick *As I am amused*
(But I'm not tired) As I drop little clues
I will run You'll never leave me
(I won't run) But I'll abandon you
Because I love you You'll always need me
(A better word is 'desire') And I'll never need you
Let me go! My grip is vice-like
(But you're not holding me) I'm not ready to let you go
Bring me back! If I lose you, 'my dear'
(But I never left) I must find yet another 'beau'
Love me only! And I've not the time to put effort
(But you love equally) In little minions like you
Push me away! I've not a care to give for
(Or bridge this rift) You insects I never knew
Please, disappear I am your torture
One day you'll understand But I am your salvation
That the twisted way you love I am your executioner
Could coax death from any human And I am your redemption
Please, disappear! You'll wish me dead forever
Though I'll weep when you're gone You'll wish me dead I know
I know sanity will return And you'll wish yourself deader
And I'll eventually move on. When away I finally go.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
If I let my eyes glaze over just right, I get a nice film quality picture.
I hover out of my body- like a mad director, evaluating what we've got, I snip the film strips from my memory, franticaly re-piecing together the story.
I didn't get the shots I wanted.
I feel hollow and sick.
Playing and re-playing the scenes where it all went to the dregs.
Maybe if I were paying closer attention- I could have gotten it right.
I could've rearranged the shot list- so "major life accident" was at the end of the movie- not the beginning.
Sorting through what we're left with,
I hear no mellow music scoring my mothers choked sobs.
No soft glow to hide the harsh lines of grief described on her face.
The bottles of liquor weren't props.
And when the sound of silence rendered her breathless-
no one was there to yell "CUT"!
I grit my teeth and hold back my seething anger at such a **** writer.
This is not a sci-fi film.
No alien plummets to earth eager to turn back the sands of time because there was a fluke in the configubobulator.
Not a romantic comedy,
where his smashed body miraculously recovers and my mother, him, and all the kids pursue their dreams as a family of comics on the road- The jackson 5 of stand up!
No inspiring action film where the government tests a bionic exoskeleton, connects it to his brains nervous system, and after wild success he dedicates his life to intergalactic vigilante work, as well as a remaining a reliable family man.
There's no sending it back for re-writes.
There is no 1 hero to lean on.
No villain to hate.
Only us.
I hope one day, it's enough.
I hope one day we have a film we can be proud of.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
Rain showers, mazes uncovered
Dancing like a little child with a toy
Reclaimed as the drizzles recovers
Pouncing jumps like a kangaroo
The winter burns as the fire blaze
Warmed by the ambience of the logs
Reflections denuded, secrets unearthed
Times lost bouncing like a ball
Bare and **** in the cool mist and fog
A shadowy phantom arises me
An Orion exhibit, my alpha constellation
Carving me out of the hidden cave
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs
Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish----
Christ! They are panes of ice,
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs----
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
Let the mercuric
Atoms that ******* drip
Into the terrible well,
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
3.3k
She sloughs off her skin,
stepping out with heavy
feet to let her
coffin fall around her
piece by silk pale piece.
Raw and bleeding,
the water encases her in
a liquid embrace, as
calm as a mother's arms
as quiet as death at midnight.
Naked and alone
the water turning red with
truth and thoughts held
close, she washes away the
weighted thoughts of a future unknown.
What life she must lead,
to hide behind closed doors, locked
against the eyes of those
she so sweetly calls
her dearest friends.
But soon she is clean of filth
and doubt and steps out
into the gleaming lights of reality,
facing again the impeccable
glass of imperfection and truth.
She denies the facts and
slowly recovers, recollects
the pieces of a lie
formed through years
of trying to belong to others.
And slowly, like a geisha,
she paints on a face strange
and familiar, her practiced
hands trembling slightly,
the first crack in a porcelain mask.
It is then she stops,
caught on a stray thought
that has crept from the depths
of reddened water, the realization
that the geisha died long ago.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
Barely Walks.
And does not sleep
day squinting
night in trance;
Moonblinked
& Anomie doesn’t speak
What she thinks
Until she drink
Apart; life projector spreads in sheets
Anomie not loveable
so off she goes
with dogs in sheets
that bark and bones
& in the padded womb
zaps milky-Light
synthetic-filtered-bright
A spotlight for the bees
Getting Drunk between her Knees
Confusion explodes confetti
disorientation takes the plow
*** the only how
An ****** or a fake hopeless meow
She lives in mental corners
watching window borders
They push in; she falls out
Brand new day
Teeth on pillows crack
Anomie's mind
has to react
She's fast to split-
Spit out a rebuttal
method witty-tactix kit
No one tells her time to go
But when Bee's belly full
She-goes - Self-loathes
Morning Glories still shriveled in their pods
They own the glory of her story and her song
Hiding in sarcastic retreat for clean feet
under ***** water bathes
wipes off the meat
Not your friend
She's trouble to love
The dirtiest dove
Anomie is naked and she's hated
Take away the curtain glove
eye slit under sunlit
She recovers
Don't judge
it's all her love
but you ****** Anomie anyways
just because
The Thrill
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
Burnt toast and
a spot of blood.
Father dresses for work
and leaves with a wave,
his gabardine suit
the exact same shade
as the storm cloud blooming
on the back of his left hand.
After breakfast, mother pins
his undershirts to the wash line,
clothespins clenched
between broken teeth.
From my upstairs window,
I watch his shirts stiffening
in the flinty December air,
a chorus of white flags,
obsequious and clean.
Mother recovers in the laundry room,
where the floor is dusted with feeble
grains of spilled detergent.
I spend the afternoon
preparing for the sound
of tires crunching on gravel,
for the sweep of headlights
across the lawn.
There are plans
and maneuvers
to arrange.
Counterattacks.
Even now, the snow
on the side of the road
has turned to the color
of my childhood.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
tire ishq kī intihā chāhtā huuñ
mirī sādgī dekh kyā chāhtā huuñ
Your infinite love, I desire
Look at my humility what I desire
sitam ** ki ** vada-e-be-hijābī
koī baat sabr-āzmā chāhtā huuñ
Fury or your audacious-unveiling
Something fortitude-testing I desire
ye jannat mubārak rahe zāhidoñ ko
ki maiñ aap kā sāmnā chāhtā huuñ
Heavens be favourable for the religious
But us ever-so close, facing each other is what I desire
zarā sā to dil huuñ magar shoḳh itnā
vahī lan-tarānī sunā chāhtā huuñ
A tiny heart but so spirited I am
To hear those words ‘’By no means canst thou see Me’’ I desire
koī dam kā mehmāñ huuñ ai ahl-e-mahfil
charāġh-e-sahar huuñ bujhā chāhtā huuñ
Determined guest I am O’ people of assembly
Morning lamp I am, quenching I desire
bharī bazm meñ raaz kī baat kah dī
baḌā be-adab huuñ sazā chāhtā huuñ
Within a full gathering I have disclosed the secret
So impolite I am, your punishment I desire
Note:
Moses prays to God for guidance and begs God to reveal himself to him. It is narrated in the Quran that God tells him that it would not be possible for Moses to perceive God, but that He would reveal himself to the mountain, stating: "By no means canst thou see Me (direct); But look upon the mount; if it abide in its place, then shalt thou see Me." When God reveals himself to the mountain, it instantaneously turns into ashes, and Moses loses consciousness. When he recovers, he goes down in total submission and asks forgiveness of God.
✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain
Words of Muhammad Iqbal
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 11:14 PM UTC
Holding on to whatever
is not worthy or needed
is terribly frustrating,
a waist of time and lives.
Letting go of the
unnecessary and unbefitting
is the only ultimate proper
response to lack of result.
Whatsoever that is beautiful,
and acceptable to the heart,
the mind has to admit
and adjust to all its ramifications.
Healing comes after turmoil
and chaos that ravages the body
and mind.
Our mood recovers from the shock
and pressures of the world outside.
Nothing can be more devastating
than the mere ignorance of ongoing
deception choking the life out
of the people.
Taken by the horns,
this beast of burden has to go down.
The fire is rekindled within
and ignited by the unknown forces of
the divine light burning in the heart to
cleanse our impurities of the body and mind,
refreshed by the spirit with sublime light.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
In the silence of the night
In a serenity of mind
With gesture
Without any word
The Moon tends to change
The state of mind
Offering a secret message
“Never overdue happiness”
In the journey of thought
Most of us
Lose all the senses
Some recovers, SANE
Most remains, INSANE
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 10:08 PM UTC
Now I am wild wind
over your city,
wanna destroy everything that once with you was pretty,
erase every memory of you being mischevious and witty,
wanna give you pain,
wanna see you asking for piety
but there you are infront of me again,
I feels like a paitent recovers from pain
than I was hard as ice
now I am melting slow and nice
in my mind echoed a voice,
"You can bear all the thunder
cause with him
once you were a breeze"
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 3:11 AM UTC
Cherry scented lip balm
And bubble gum shampoo
Dreams of love start young
You think you'll know just what to do
Teddy bear tea parties
Long left behind
Give way to basement spin-the-bottle
Hearts afire from words so kind
Hormone crazy rebel yells
Lead the way to things unknown
It must be love that brought us here
Uncharted bodies, believe we're grown
Blindsided devastation
Turns the smooth to pitted glass
Innocence was traded
For a hard kick in the ***
First crush and puppy love so sweet
Will always leave their mark
But no one quite recovers
From their first real broken heart
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 9:02 PM UTC
my island is refuge
your island is refuge
for they bear the same name
ours
some call it sheltering
for surrounded by spits of land,
resting tween tines of two forks,
but storms come. do damage.
the island recovers, inevitably as
humans and nature do a joint tented revival meeting
a project, new slip covers, fresh paint job,
we joke to ourselves
but on the heel of the isle
where our sturdy bungalow faces the
moody waters, the white capped breezes,
your chair neath the tree with the swing awaits, asking,
“when will the woodsman come,his tides flow away, away, to
why not here?
so many stories have I, poems to dictate,”
that silent observer says “his presence is required on this isle called
ours”
the currents announced as well,
an American blessing
“ready willing and Abel
to carry, to gift renew,
to the isle of refuge”
6/39/18. 8:08am
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
The human imperative tells you this if
nobody tried to live this way the useful world would be in vain.
A man, like me, sitting on this sagging bed, staring at the green
greased stained walls disgusted with the human imperative is unique.
I detest the ***** smell in the dingy brown halls and
the communal bathroom with bugs on the wall.
I know why you had me taken away not jailed this time.
I didn't hit you just spilled whiskey on your imperative new
furniture and dress. Now, whiskey is spilled on this brown
stained carpet and I have no more money. You saw to that!
I'm too sick to panhandle. Nothing to pawn. And the human
imperative makes me sicker. It doesn't consider really gut
hunger for love, *** food, sleep, oblivion from the mind's
torments of failure. I didn't expect much from this life.
My brilliance kept me above the rest. I am brilliant enough to
know life can end here till they throw you in the alley to die.
There is no where to go. You say recovery? I say, Bull!
No one recovers from a plan like this. Not when you were
King of the road. Not when you wouldn't concede to others
needs because they were banal and stupid and nobody
accepted you drunk. I didn't hit you this time. I know when
I hit you. Some don't. I know I made a mess and was bad.
**** it, once in awhile one of us gets away. They do, imperative
or not...
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 9:06 AM UTC
*Every time it goes to **** a little piece of me dies with it.
Hearts break sure, but they also mend over time.
What stays broken, what breaks more than it recovers every time though,
is hope
the belief in happiness
the belief in trust
the belief that if you put your everything into something
into someone
that it will all work out in the end
that knowing you would do anything would somehow mean they would too
that they forgive as you would
that they would work at it as you would
that they are somehow as committed as you are
all these things die a little each time, and never come all the way back*
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
So here we are, dying a little bit more with every second that goes by.
Wishing we could live longer to see how this world recovers itself from all the wounds we've inflicted upon it... but we know that won't happen.
Dreaming of another tomorrow, where we can laugh and enjoy the sunlight.
We all know how this ends...
But as long as I live I shall fight!
Fight for me. Fight for us.
For nothing is over until the last grain of sand drops.
I may not succeed, but, if I fail, at least I tried.
And, who knows?
Maybe I will accomplish something. Maybe things will change.
We will never know if we don't try.
So here I am, dying a little bit more with every second that goes by, but not giving up.
I will make this place a better place for you, for me... for us.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:42 PM UTC
It nods and curtseys and recovers
When the wind blows above,
The nettle on the graves of lovers
That hanged themselves for love.
The nettle nods, the wind blows over,
The man, he does not move,
The lover of the grave, the lover
That hanged himself for love.
1.5k
he rises with words in his unwashed mouth,
mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits
of morsels of his past, some good, some bad,
some tastes of places, of women he has loved,
sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a
jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo
of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s
smashup
he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better
recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members
are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the
vive entre les differences…
South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities,
Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes
in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible
to separate the essences and the similarities same,
and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs
his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of
his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming
he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure,
who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers
some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in,
but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders
to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .
Jul 28, 2024
Jul 28, 2024 at 7:30 AM UTC
He broadcasts a misprint offender.
He is advised to question plutocracy.
He is deformed at birth and then again later.
He goes to war with a violin case as a a weapon.
He grabs all the paintings off the wall at once.
He is in an art museum.
He is in a grassroots rebellion against the free market society.
He is crashing a boat into the Pentagon.
He is chewing on a metal bottle cap and his teeth are all breaking off.
He is not allowed into the back seat of his own car.
He is watching a play from very far.
He yawns in a diner.
He lies in his bed.
Everyone overwhelms a giant.
Everyone recovers the disappointing vehicle throughout the famine.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
He broadcasts a misprint offender.
He is advised to question plutocracy.
He is deformed at birth and then again later.
He goes to war with a violin case as a a weapon.
He grabs all the paintings off the wall at once.
He is in an art museum.
He is in a grassroots rebellion against the free market society.
He is crashing a boat into the Pentagon.
He is chewing on a metal bottle cap and his teeth are all breaking off.
He is not allowed into the back seat of his own car.
He is watching a play from very far.
He yawns in a diner.
He lies in his bed.
Everyone overwhelms a giant.
Everyone recovers the disappointing vehicle throughout the famine.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
No matter how hard we fight do we ever REALLY recover from the habits that scared us in the past?
Are we ever really ok , even though we tell our selves everyday that we are better now?
To me it seems as if every time someone "recovers" something happens and they spiral even farther down then before.
So , recovery, does it ever truly 100% happen, or do we just try to make our selves blind to what is still there even after all of our hard work?
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
You see it all.
When darkness falls.
In shimmering light.
The unbearable fight.
A black deep ocean.
Redeem all shadows
of emotions.
Feel free to let tears
flow into the sea.
We can't always
be happy and
feeling joyfully.
But that's okay.
We are all human.
The deepest red
flowing through
our veins.
Revealing black pain.
A soul recovers again.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Could you imagine if we lived in a world where we never discriminate?
The word ****** would be a myth, People were open minded and great!
It hard to talk to one another, when rarely we relate,
Judging one another because of the pigment on another persons face
This life is sucha disgrace
I'm sure it wasn't gods plan...
To belittle all our women...
Give power to a weak man...
To **** with no remorse...
Start an idea called divorce...
To conceive without love,
That virally spreads thru ***********
And To pray without meaning
Ask god to approve your selfish dreaming...
While the broken hearted child, recovers from internal bleeding,
Society, I am pleading
We gotta resort to a change...
We gotta help one another,
But you can't help AND inflict pain
Questioning all my thoughts,
Skeptical on my wishes,
Because angels are cleaning dishes now all in hells kitchen,
No point of leaders voice, if no one cares to listen...of loyalty, when integrity is morally...missing
And if the world comes to an end...I just hope im not a witness
Crazy how America represents the eagle!
Yet we are treated like pigeons.
Brainwashed by the "govt" seems nowadays to be a given..
Can I be a good man?
Or a brilliant musician?
Can I follow my own heart?
Wait, do I really need to ask permission?
Do I!?....I don't know. But these modern day issues all seem to think so.
-Dougie simps #LostLoveWriters
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC