"rectifies" poems - Hello Poetry

Show us: swaying stories, softly storming. She blew blossom, brushes forehead; farewell fruit of flickering frames. When we watch and argue, (eyes smiling, this is me.) Who wishes for furtive false films? “We will” rectifies reeling reality.

0

Jun 23, 2011

Jun 23, 2011 at 1:48 AM UTC

seb

swaying stories

Show us: swaying stories, softly storming. She blew blossom, brushes forehead; farewell fruit of flickering frames. When we watch and argue, (eyes smiling, this is me.) Who wishes for furtive false films? “We will” rectifies reeling reality.

15

The Lost Letter of Love- The thunder of the busy street makes love to the vicious voices that plague my mind. Reminisce of a forgotten love still shower my inner most thoughts. Passion that once overwhelmed my life is now my reason for exhaust. The shimmers that once lit my ambition and drive now hang lightless, darker than the deepest secret. Yet the frequency of lost desire still induces the most intoxicating substance. Arms grow weary caressing forgotten times, the tears that once grew a river, are now dry beds of torment. The beautiful dawn plays in coalition with the residuals of a distant song. “Goodbye my lover” plays in harmony with the neglect of reality. Not facing demons yet displaying affection to them. Indulging in virtues once restricted by political propaganda. I am her vicious vendetta, her thoughtlessness, her absence. I lay on a bed of needles enjoying the aguish, suffering in satisfaction. The destructive thought of deserving such a decisive decision allows my mind to become a rag of lost emotion, wiping tears from the concaved steps that once bread a whirlwind of radical love. A canvas stained recklessness paints a picture of a destined solitude. No regret orchestrates a symphony of percussions, streaming beautiful sound through the hills of total regret. Awake becomes second nature, slumber slumbers with the lack of motivation to ignite the calm. Insomnia hums in a melody so righteous that the religion becomes the man. A hollow shell of broken ambition sway in the wind of self desire. The cries of the night become intoned with the cries of truth. Instinct maps the course of self-withered illusion, illuminating the “why us” cause. A foundation of happiness holds the weight of a pessimistic engagement. While optimistic scavengers prey on the depths of endless souls. Disappointment rectifies all signatures of a so-called love. Remembering a once forgotten future claims its stakes as the eternal right. The moon holds desperate for the fortune of the unfortunate son. Unsettled disputes, take a toll on broken bodies. Broken wills dance in the limelight ignoring the forgotten pain, a laugh of retribution becomes one with inexplicit content. While saying “I love you” becomes that of explicit context, searching for the meaning between the lines. The lost letter of love shapes like the clouds in the sky only resembling something it never can be. RICHARD ITSKOVICH

0

Jul 28, 2010

Jul 28, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC

richard-itskovich

Lost Letter of Love

The Lost Letter of Love- The thunder of the busy street makes love to the vicious voices that plague my mind. Reminisce of a forgotten love still shower my inner most thoughts. Passion that once overwhelmed my life is now my reason for exhaust. The shimmers that once lit my ambition and drive now hang lightless, darker than the deepest secret. Yet the frequency of lost desire still induces the most intoxicating substance. Arms grow weary caressing forgotten times, the tears that once grew a river, are now dry beds of torment. The beautiful dawn plays in coalition with the residuals of a distant song. “Goodbye my lover” plays in harmony with the neglect of reality. Not facing demons yet displaying affection to them. Indulging in virtues once restricted by political propaganda. I am her vicious vendetta, her thoughtlessness, her absence. I lay on a bed of needles enjoying the aguish, suffering in satisfaction. The destructive thought of deserving such a decisive decision allows my mind to become a rag of lost emotion, wiping tears from the concaved steps that once bread a whirlwind of radical love. A canvas stained recklessness paints a picture of a destined solitude. No regret orchestrates a symphony of percussions, streaming beautiful sound through the hills of total regret. Awake becomes second nature, slumber slumbers with the lack of motivation to ignite the calm. Insomnia hums in a melody so righteous that the religion becomes the man. A hollow shell of broken ambition sway in the wind of self desire. The cries of the night become intoned with the cries of truth. Instinct maps the course of self-withered illusion, illuminating the “why us” cause. A foundation of happiness holds the weight of a pessimistic engagement. While optimistic scavengers prey on the depths of endless souls. Disappointment rectifies all signatures of a so-called love. Remembering a once forgotten future claims its stakes as the eternal right. The moon holds desperate for the fortune of the unfortunate son. Unsettled disputes, take a toll on broken bodies. Broken wills dance in the limelight ignoring the forgotten pain, a laugh of retribution becomes one with inexplicit content. While saying “I love you” becomes that of explicit context, searching for the meaning between the lines. The lost letter of love shapes like the clouds in the sky only resembling something it never can be. RICHARD ITSKOVICH

3

The mind is a complex thing, all cogs and gears turning and fitting together so perfectly, all to a beat that is created solely by the mind itself. When I look at people I see the cogs in their heads turning and moving so smoothly, seamlessly, all in time. But when I look at myself I see it slip and catch, go in and out of time so easily, when I make a mistake it stutters, and when I say something bad it stops completely, slowly it tries to get back to normal but it never truly rectifies the situation. I see the way that others change beat so easily, jumping from rhythm to rhythm like its natural, but when I try to change tempo I stutter slowly towards the right beat, finally getting close but I'm still am slightly off, slowly I get closer and closer until I land on the right rhythm using all my willpower to stay there and suddenly the topic changes and so does the beat to an unknown and frankly scary place. After half an hour of trying to make conversation my head gives up and nods along to the beat of the crowd lulling in the corner trying to seem average but never completely fitting in.

0

Oct 7, 2017

Oct 7, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC

Hombow

Clockwork Minds

The mind is a complex thing, all cogs and gears turning and fitting together so perfectly, all to a beat that is created solely by the mind itself. When I look at people I see the cogs in their heads turning and moving so smoothly, seamlessly, all in time. But when I look at myself I see it slip and catch, go in and out of time so easily, when I make a mistake it stutters, and when I say something bad it stops completely, slowly it tries to get back to normal but it never truly rectifies the situation. I see the way that others change beat so easily, jumping from rhythm to rhythm like its natural, but when I try to change tempo I stutter slowly towards the right beat, finally getting close but I'm still am slightly off, slowly I get closer and closer until I land on the right rhythm using all my willpower to stay there and suddenly the topic changes and so does the beat to an unknown and frankly scary place. After half an hour of trying to make conversation my head gives up and nods along to the beat of the crowd lulling in the corner trying to seem average but never completely fitting in.

1

Revelational 33 in triangulation A one, the perpendicular, the two A pyramid adjoint in intersections Recalled dream of masters and teachers Repentant breeze on drowned water a leather polished and scaled to sleek A lover, my 33 year old angelic man Reaped at the foot of the rooted crux Restored from the mire and mirage of mares An outward crimson, the glorified grace laced A river that flow eastwards on descending cliffs Revolved from the depth of oceanic rocks Revelational 33 in triangulation A light, the spotlight pearl unfurled A force that will never die but live Rectifies and autocorrected from the abyss

0

Jun 4, 2016

Jun 4, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC

Jaq

Revelational 33

Revelational 33 in triangulation A one, the perpendicular, the two A pyramid adjoint in intersections Recalled dream of masters and teachers Repentant breeze on drowned water a leather polished and scaled to sleek A lover, my 33 year old angelic man Reaped at the foot of the rooted crux Restored from the mire and mirage of mares An outward crimson, the glorified grace laced A river that flow eastwards on descending cliffs Revolved from the depth of oceanic rocks Revelational 33 in triangulation A light, the spotlight pearl unfurled A force that will never die but live Rectifies and autocorrected from the abyss

16

Your hands meet mine yet I feel no such warmth beneath, Like as in your heart - your pulse is beating but it bears no love. It does not sing a song that wins over the robins that wake us in the morn', And it does not seem to make me flit nervously as a child would. (Those etiquette lessons did not do me much justice – I still fidget.) I may be beautiful today - rose-stained cheeks and chandelier eyes, But you must understand that this white dress, drowning in lace and beading, Is similar to your own outfit as well, dashing young gentleman - we are trapped. Just a marriage of convenience, isn't it? Like what your mother said to you. (As what mine has said to me. It seems as if we have found something in common.) It is like the sacerdotal man, dressed in his ornate robes, does not care much for us; As if his readings of the words of the Lord rectifies our loveless union. And as his voice trails off and he orders you to touch upon my lips with a kiss, I can’t help but tighten my mouth and pretend that you’re my prince charming. (How I wish to shove our vows down his throat, to make him take this all back.) The audience stands tall and proud and claps with a feigned enthusiasm, Galvanizing the church with fraudulent hope and happiness. I am the docile blushing bride, and as you lead us out of the threshold, I cannot help but wonder how two people could have destroyed such a beautiful thing. (We are murderers of matrimony, aren’t we, dear? Not much better than a petty criminal.)

0

Jun 24, 2010

Jun 24, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC

julia-leung-1

murderers of matrimony

Your hands meet mine yet I feel no such warmth beneath, Like as in your heart - your pulse is beating but it bears no love. It does not sing a song that wins over the robins that wake us in the morn', And it does not seem to make me flit nervously as a child would. (Those etiquette lessons did not do me much justice – I still fidget.) I may be beautiful today - rose-stained cheeks and chandelier eyes, But you must understand that this white dress, drowning in lace and beading, Is similar to your own outfit as well, dashing young gentleman - we are trapped. Just a marriage of convenience, isn't it? Like what your mother said to you. (As what mine has said to me. It seems as if we have found something in common.) It is like the sacerdotal man, dressed in his ornate robes, does not care much for us; As if his readings of the words of the Lord rectifies our loveless union. And as his voice trails off and he orders you to touch upon my lips with a kiss, I can’t help but tighten my mouth and pretend that you’re my prince charming. (How I wish to shove our vows down his throat, to make him take this all back.) The audience stands tall and proud and claps with a feigned enthusiasm, Galvanizing the church with fraudulent hope and happiness. I am the docile blushing bride, and as you lead us out of the threshold, I cannot help but wonder how two people could have destroyed such a beautiful thing. (We are murderers of matrimony, aren’t we, dear? Not much better than a petty criminal.)

20

a city is now renewed (like a small child taking its first steps towards a redeemed life, humble and beautiful in its vulnerability) this city, this late-blooming flower, known to all as one worthy of the highest praise praise to the creator of firey orange skies praise to the ferocity of a beating heart praise to the quiet sounds of our people rising up, because the ruins are coming to life now watch, as He rebuilds. restores renews rectifies revives. but.. for something to be revived mustn't it first be dead?

0

Mar 10, 2014

Mar 10, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC

eliza-jane

response

a city is now renewed (like a small child taking its first steps towards a redeemed life, humble and beautiful in its vulnerability) this city, this late-blooming flower, known to all as one worthy of the highest praise praise to the creator of firey orange skies praise to the ferocity of a beating heart praise to the quiet sounds of our people rising up, because the ruins are coming to life now watch, as He rebuilds. restores renews rectifies revives. but.. for something to be revived mustn't it first be dead?

15

While you take pride in silent shelter Find me screaming at the door Burning middle-men of my lament See the ashes you lick from my feet? Only the sick cry for servitude - wake up IT is no thing - wants and wills affixed on third string The string is bright and thin - beware Progress without patience Is deformity Cleverness Justifies Wisdom Rectifies

0

Jul 14, 2014

Jul 14, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC

nathan-ere

Money

While you take pride in silent shelter Find me screaming at the door Burning middle-men of my lament See the ashes you lick from my feet? Only the sick cry for servitude - wake up IT is no thing - wants and wills affixed on third string The string is bright and thin - beware Progress without patience Is deformity Cleverness Justifies Wisdom Rectifies

11

Hey, You ! The Unspoken Wolf Let Me... Erupt Your Booming Silence Expunge Your Fiery Pain... Only, the Wise Can See I heard... Have Silence, or Complain Have Exact Same Address... It's in Your Truthful Nature I Know... To Conceal Dismaying Agony To Accept Undone Faults... When You Look Through Truly I See... Everything is Right There Every Answer Becomes Clear... When You Work By Realizations I Regret... That You Get Underestimated That Asserts 'for Granted'... I Pray that One Day Some one... Rectifies Your Searing Pain Reforms You in Totality... Let me Tell You This ! I Conclude... Heart can Survive Breaks Mind, is But Brittle... Being an Unspoken Wolf Myself I Express... My Feelings to God The Almighty, The Praiseworthy !

0

Oct 21, 2018

Oct 21, 2018 at 6:12 AM UTC

xirexor

Revealed

Hey, You ! The Unspoken Wolf Let Me... Erupt Your Booming Silence Expunge Your Fiery Pain... Only, the Wise Can See I heard... Have Silence, or Complain Have Exact Same Address... It's in Your Truthful Nature I Know... To Conceal Dismaying Agony To Accept Undone Faults... When You Look Through Truly I See... Everything is Right There Every Answer Becomes Clear... When You Work By Realizations I Regret... That You Get Underestimated That Asserts 'for Granted'... I Pray that One Day Some one... Rectifies Your Searing Pain Reforms You in Totality... Let me Tell You This ! I Conclude... Heart can Survive Breaks Mind, is But Brittle... Being an Unspoken Wolf Myself I Express... My Feelings to God The Almighty, The Praiseworthy !

32

The ties between isolation and liberation Seem faulty Unruly Impossible But in felt driven black And blotted skies I find myself in that between Awry From meaning of life and gentrified Feelings where we are assumed to spend Most of our time I tried I wish I could hammer pointed flathead nails Into my harrowed chest Without the screws of drivered nights Rendering me blind Though now I understand I’ve been that way my whole life The comfort of what’s always there Illusions of truths Falsified by minds so accustomed to presume That we are never alone Absent of human nature But as the faulty lines And sharp riptides And avalanches Of hidden tries Rectifies Nothing We are alone I am alone She doesn’t know me Where the other won’t hold me What a shame Who’s to blame? Me of course For my heart is too tortured To harbor Any broken armor I’m just softly Bandaged and bruised By life’s tumultues And I’ll never be arounded Always surrounded By fire and demons and unwanted reasons As to why my mind screams in drones Of always Always Always Always Being alone

0

May 27, 2019

May 27, 2019 at 2:08 AM UTC

kromo

wrong.

The ties between isolation and liberation Seem faulty Unruly Impossible But in felt driven black And blotted skies I find myself in that between Awry From meaning of life and gentrified Feelings where we are assumed to spend Most of our time I tried I wish I could hammer pointed flathead nails Into my harrowed chest Without the screws of drivered nights Rendering me blind Though now I understand I’ve been that way my whole life The comfort of what’s always there Illusions of truths Falsified by minds so accustomed to presume That we are never alone Absent of human nature But as the faulty lines And sharp riptides And avalanches Of hidden tries Rectifies Nothing We are alone I am alone She doesn’t know me Where the other won’t hold me What a shame Who’s to blame? Me of course For my heart is too tortured To harbor Any broken armor I’m just softly Bandaged and bruised By life’s tumultues And I’ll never be arounded Always surrounded By fire and demons and unwanted reasons As to why my mind screams in drones Of always Always Always Always Being alone

50