"rehabilitated" poems
*eking out the ultimate gasp in my last breath of impulsion
i collapse without a touch of grace at race's end
how i made it i will never know
dazed and in bewilderment
i reminisce upon my journey
an aggregation of barricades assailed me
with iniquitous decadent delight
seeming to writhe in triumph at my possible demise
capitulating as it devoured and spewed me out the other side
i humbly reassembled fragments of my near annihilation
temporarily rehabilitated
i recommenced the toilsome climb
to the treasured peak atop the mount
when in would come the tempest with its furor
and render me asunder
mere exhaustion is not the word
for death experienced recurrently
ground to mulch and back again
screaming, pleading, surrendering
proved futile as i newly met the same demise
near incapacitation i miraculously emerged
and scraping pulled myself with broken heart and bones
scratching my way through the darkness
toppling at the pinnacle
to victory's end
with exhilaration it dawns on me
the long dark night is over
i passed the test to realize
it is not the finish line
but only the beginning
©2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
Barely Legal
Wouldn't change a thing, even if I could,
when I see her, I always sport a wood.
She is so very fine,
seeing her puts me on cloud nine.
Best *** I have ever seen,
hard to believe she is still a teen.
Between he thighs is the Bermuda triangle,
I get lost, but its something I can handle.
Smoothest skin you'll ever feel,
got turned down, but I applied for an appeal.
Hair is down to her ankles,
have to be careful when I light candles.
Our relationship is one of love and hate,
every topic is a heated debate.
She only likes me for my third leg,
to get her, I must always beg.
Our age difference doesn't matter,
I'm always on deck, to be the next batter.
She is not even old enough to drink,
but on the inside, its always pink.
She calls me her sugar daddy,
I always end up being her caddy.
She cheats on me every chance she gets,
but I still have no bitter regrets.
She moved in and steals all my money,
but she is more sweet than any kind of honey.
She is the most sexiest stripper,
I will always be the biggest tipper.
Then one day she was gone,
she used me just like a pawn.
She took my money and stole my new car,
she is now the biggest **** star.
The ***** never did pay me back,
now she is addicted to ****** and crack.
Tracked her down and got her rehabilitated,
she is now truly vindicated.
She lost the devil and found god,
well that's what she calls me, when riding my rod.
It truly is good to be the king,
she's now my queen, not just an expensive fling.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Kicked out of Rehab
They won’t let me go,
Oh I don’t know about this place
No more games-says doctor Wise
And all the like-you are alone.
Oh like a moan
You’re grown then your old
Just in yesterday,
But I say “Hey!” look to the sun
Where light always shines and
The moon she goes again
Full then shallow,
Small then like a shadow
A phantom in the day
Oh just like a rose petal in May,
Nothing about the clock looks the same.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
Why does this caged bird sing?
Because I'm Black,
In a country that says that doesn't mean a thing.
Because racism has taken many setbacks
And the **Klu Klux **** has applications
and we know where the police get their reps at.
So why can't we take a step back?
My life means less than yours,
But I find myself pursuing better things
So my daughter never wants for more.
Locked in cages,
I'm a Starling
So I yearn to fly.
See my brothers in them four walls
Like that's where they were born to die.
If our privilege was like yours
We would never hear those expensive collect calls.
So we use our knowledge for wrong,
You'd never appreciate that a felon could write this poem.
Trapped in environments that don't care for us,
We try to branch out
They take a few shots
And you no longer hear from us.
So why does the caged bird really sing?
Probably because I know where my opportunities really lie.
In a ball, a mic or some reality show.
I'm not against those options
But I live in reality though.
There's no hope for the rehabilitated,
You have to carve your own road,
And nowhere is that clearly stated.
And to add insult to injury,
I'm Muslim and if you knew
You wouldn't see a friend in me.
So why does the caged bird sing?
If you clearly can't hear us,
Why put on a badge in a neighborhood,
If you fear us?
You prop yourself on a pedestal
And look down.
You brought us here, left us in the field, in shacks
And now we're in the Slums of every town.
You diminished our importance
And showed us anything that wasn't white was wrong,
For all I know you helped me write this poem.
So why does this caged bird sing?
So my words can vibrate my shackle loose,
So my ideals can blow open the door
And my melody can inspire every bird too.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
Undecided I am
As to whether or not obsessing over you is wrong
I may never know
If it must be wrong, then I only wrong myself
For I am addicted to you,
and it is not long before i feel the withdrawal
Of your poisonous beauty
Far more potent than any substance
Far more desirable than any liquor
Thirsty for you I am
As to whether or not the thirst is quenchable
I may never know
If it must go unquenched, I will surly die of thirst
For I have had a dose of you,
and so your poison will remain in my heart
Until it gives way
After my hit of you I desire no other
After my fix of you I need another
I can not be rehabilitated
Or cured thanks to you
So i must adjust,
and aspirations must be met
I'll start off small,
and see if you've noticed me yet
Conclusion or delusion
I wonder in my state of euphoria
I think obsessing over you is right for me
Having learnt to embrace this love sickness you have brought unto me
This feeling is human,
so I must be too
Well a man has needs,
and what I need is you
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
You found out I called you crazy,
but to be fair you were the same man who
stabbed himself on purpose and
picked at wounds just to see how well the scars held up
under your knife.
The same man who woke up with bruises for hands and
bourbon for breath.
You always slept with your eyes open,
glazed over like a snake ready to strike.
You said this was from spending 19 years locked in a cage
like a feral animal.
I see that didn't teach you anything.
Some beings can never be rehabilitated;
they should have never released you back into the wild.
You picked roses because they reminded you of your dead mother
and once you made me talk to her ashes
and afterwards you threw me on your pool table
and made a mess of me.
You said it was for your memory,
I used it for my art.
You would cut me up for fun and stalk me for pleasure.
You say bourbon and *** makes you feel real again.
You would always tell me I was too pretty for you and
we would laugh along to gory movies until our eyes half closed in drunken lust and all I wanted to do was drink from you.
You would lock your door and turn on the fairy lights
and touch me real slow and hard until I became cold from the
beating of your heart next to mine.
You always said you were going to leave,
I never thought you'd just disappear
and still be 5 minutes away from me.
You are a ghost that I wish would haunt me a little more often
because I am reduced to ashes now just like your cremated mother.
You turned me rabid and mean.
You never told me how to make this stop.
I just keep bleeding from the wounds you left.
You turned me into the same animal you are.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
My brother, it's as if we're speaking of a ghost
when we speak of you.
Your name
constantly accompanied by
"remember when"s and "I miss"es.
But you're not gone,
you're just away
on a little trip that turned
into an extended stay.
But it's no vacation paradise.
It's like you took a one way flight
into a bird cage
and you watched the door slam shut
right behind you
with nothing you or I could do.
And it pains me to see
because you're such a free spirit
but they strapped a name tag to you
and made you their pet.
Threw you in with the convicted rest
until you rebelled
and they kept you by yourself.
Well over a year spent in solitude
and when they let you out
you weren't the same.
And mom, she wasn't either.
I swear I saw her flinch every time she heard your name.
Little brother, he's the spitting image of you.
Like he's trying to make up for your loss.
A stand in
a mini me
every time he laughs it's your face I see.
He wears your hat every single day
and it breaks my heart
he wants to be just like you
and I pray he doesn't take after your bad parts too.
You're coming home soon
and as happy as I am
I'm scared to death it won't be long
before you're back at it again.
Rehabilitated is an empty word
you know what it means but it's something you've never heard.
You are what you will always be.
Even if what you're not is free.
s.mndi
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
She was the **** I was the crystal
addicted to each other the moment
we meet.
But every high has a come down,
I'm the ***** needle..
She was the spoon, warming up on
another's sleeve.
Tided tightly ready to overdose on her.
She was the chemical bliss
that could be taken anywhere,
I thought...
that we were something special.
But I was used,
discarded.
I was useless to her, as I was unable
to pierce the vein..
Used to many times.
So she found another way to find
a way to make her self higher
than she was with me.
Now I'm in a come down
rehabilitated
and I'm struggling.
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 3:01 PM UTC
The temptation of 'Adesso' requests at the tip of my tongue,
for use only when the gaps in-between seem too long.
Distracted again, by the halves at the top and the bottom.
You have questioned my preference more than once, but not often.
To confirm, alone now with thoughts of our conversations drawing me wandering back.
I'm intrigued by you, your mind...to me, the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Thoughts of you leave me lust inebriated,
over two-drink- tipsy and intoxicated.
Longing for my next fix as an addict with no desire to be rehabilitated.
Looking through these green eyes of mine.
You leave me nowhere inside to hide.
'Mischievous' I am told, is my soul, This is true but to love and be loved is my foundation goal.
A soul, honest and kind, a life of monotony is not that which I strive.
This spirit of mine on fire and alive.
Complicated is how you described your soul,
the layers of which I am intrigued to unfold.
Clear and somehow familiar to me.
Not complicated but simple, I love what I see.
A soul perhaps needing T.L.C.
A brain I am told which reduces to Brie.
Clear AND complicated...both are right it seems.
I shall not dwell that despite the cautious words when together I have spoken,
with each written word now shared, so to increases my vulnerability of being broken.
Experiencing tenderness so sincere and real.
Unfamiliar to me, an exquisite ideal.
Whether each moment together is coincidental or predetermined,
Led by my heart, body and soul is the only way to be certain.
Adesso bello, now close your eyes.
Succumb to thoughts of my fingertips tracing your thighs.
Pull me in close again tight,
safe in your arms for the rest of the night.
The coincidence of bodies, rare like the coincidence of minds.
Love and lust...the purest natural desires of human kind.
Adesso, such a powerful word on the tip of my tongue,
for use only when the gaps in-between seem too long.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
Every month I *** in a cup
to prove I am human.
I work for free to pay
off imaginary debts.
I get my paperwork stamped
so they know I participate.
It's all for my own good,
or so they tell me.
I can't be rehabilitated
until I am broken.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
LIFE
I ask you as I begin, how would you describe LIFE?
For me the word "Euphoria" comes to mind in a weird sense.
Have we become our own narrators forbidden to live our own rehabilitated LIVES?
Does LIFE for some have no meaning, where laws have incarcerated in the hearts of people who declare our own existence?
We somehow fly a flag of nations, of countries what does it represent?
Peace new LIFE or a pushchair war?
Seems to me LIFE has become a class of its own distinction, never knowing its own ending.
Is money the ultimate ruler of our hormonal LIVES?
At the end do we desire what we fear the most?
LAZA 09
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 3:23 AM UTC
I've illustrated lyrical insulation and simulated spiritual stimulation from originating with out sophistication while perfoming discriminated manipulation and rehabilitated from being to opinionated but never anticipated my own disintegration
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
“the beauty of life as seen and created by a person.”
we draw shapes in
steam on each other’s backs
worthwhile chatter and brave silences between us
our home is wood-paneled and
rehabilitated
tell me you love me in the kitchen
between hot breath and under salt water moons
pull exoskeleton from steamed baths and sunshine beds
sleep soundly on chests;
your moon and mine are the same, the same sky
I long to
crawl and lie in the hollow between
your shoulder and collar bones
sew roses on your jacket
I’d pluck out all my eyelashes so all my wishes
were yours
slide under my word covered sheets
hear my thoughts as you duck under them
of all the songs I’ve heard, yours is the most tantalising
even in a snow covered maze I’d find you
heaven is coming home to you at my table with a cup of coffee.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
Precipio
Beneath the cherubs of Basilica di
Santa Maria Maggiore, St. Frances of
Assisi inculcates the embroidered
*Il tuo sorriso è l’alba che ** perso questa mattina*
word of God, threaded into centuries
of artwork extinction, rehabilitated
into the minds of a museum, where
we cannot touch, only to distinguish,
what is ours, what is there’s, why
we must perderò understand the
implications of sunrises bringing
another day of God to teach.
Our loss of Nativity is
freestanding figures
brought on by time.
...
I was invited to read poems as a response to Ann Hamilton's exhibit at the Spencer Museum of Art. Read more about this event here: (This poem is actually shaped like a face, but I can't get the lines to stay, but you can see the actual shape at the link)
http://shannonathompson.com/2013/04/19/reading-event-ann-hamilton-at-the-spencer-museum-of-art/
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
I should, by all practical matters, quit looking through old photos of when my life was much "simpler." Childhood photos, to be exact. They serve only as a reminder of how old I am, and how much older I soon will be. (Yea, I know, ending a sentence with a prepostion is against the rules of proper penning.)
Looking at these pics, I catch myself playing the game of "whatever became of who?" Those other kids on that cul-de-sac in Corpus Christi, Texas, "waaay, waaay" back in the mid to late forties. One, in particular, comes to mind.
His name was "Duke" Jones. Perhaps, the most popular "kid" on the block.He was our next-door neighbor. An excellent "fielder" when we played baseball, heck of a fast runner, not much of a hitter. But, he was a lot more than that. For, you see, Duke, was a dog. A Doberman Pinscher, a former guarddog at military installations during the war, and rehabilitated before re-entering civilian life. And, he loved children.
Duke knew everyone on the block, knew the postman, the milk deliveryman (yes,there was a time when dairies had milk delivered to your home, but that can be another story), knew which house we lived at, the vehicles our parents drove, he was our protector. If a stranger, such as a door to door salesman, entered his territory, he froze, staring, watching, positioning himself between us and the stranger. If that stranger stepped on to the walk leading to a front door, Duke would start moving, stealthily, instincts, training, taking control. If a strange vehicle entered, he took notice, watched, intently. My mother and father often said, "We have the safest block in the city."
Our family had moved to another city in 1951, when we got a letter from Duke's "parents", telling us that Duke had passed away at age 16. Looking at that photo in my hand, Duke hasn't gone anywhere.
copyright: richard riddle: 11/02/15
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
Can you fault us for thinking
this blue above is vaulted,
strung in bolts, in reams
of ichor,
of material suggested and believed
instead of stubborn physics?
Stereoscopic vision is great
for seeing the ants walk close
and the rehabilitated bees
on local blooms
It can’t see, properly,
that the azure ceiling is a lie
of just refraction,
that’s always there
as long as our clouds allow
May 15, 2022
May 15, 2022 at 8:15 AM UTC
Tears fell....
They say you sang Amazing Grace as you found eternity.
Goodbye.
Eyes open wide.
Rehabilitated sinners.
Sons and lovers.
Hoping you felt no pain.
Years of thinking time.
Repented at leisure.
Did the crime.
Did the time.
Staunchly viewed became abuse.
Free now.
Became legally supported ******
Indonesian people, Indonesian President.
A plea to thee for clemency.
Unheard.
Too late.
Rest begrudgingly in peace.
(c) OLIVIA KENT MMCV
I disagree with drug smuggling, but,to keep these people incarcerated for so long before execution is barbaric.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
My emotions are controlling,
But the saying I'm upholding,
"Life is less about consoling,
And more about prevention".
Giving a man a minor sentence,
For ****** with intention,
Is equivalent to a suspension,
Of a handicap veterans pension.
A complete chaotic corruption.
"Life is less about consoling,
And more about prevention",
For what good is encouraging,
A lady to have an abortion.
A victimless crime?
What about the soft spoken,
The fetus just waiting for its time.
Unable to speak like a mine,
The fetus awaits its inevitable end,
With nary support of a friend,
What good is consoling?
"Life is less about consoling,
And more about prevention",
What good is an insurance policy,
When a man shot down like an animal,
By a "rehabilitated" criminal.
What good is a life gone,
When prevention was an option.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 9:57 PM UTC
I used to be addicted
until I rehabilitated
now everything is low
compared to the time I spent high
but whatever brings you up
always crashes down hard
always leaves scars
the needle marks that were your kisses
sit on my skin as reminders
that you cannot save a person
who is drowning in themselves
and rock bottom is a lot closer than you know
when drugs are involved
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
Feeling like making something but you can't come up with anything at all.
Your brain is going haywire to find something to do,
Creativity has lost it's capabilities and you're rehabilitated,
Time goes so much slower and the clock is moving on it's own dime,
Feels like you could drown yourself in blank white walls and stale chips.
Boredom is the word you know and hate,
Thinking of simpler times,
When you could find fun in a rock by the creek.
Boredom is the word you know and hate.
Wishing that you had a gun to shoot up the toilet for a good time,
You've got cobwebs in your brain hole and you're not feeling up to ****
Instead you'll just sit on the floor and melodramatically cry,
Boredom is the word you know and hate,
Thinking of simpler times,
When you could find fun in a rock by the creek.
Boredom is the word you know and hate.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
Hand me the holiest of swords
make it sharp and full of zeal
make it righteous make it real
death and justice, deal
Surgical and precise
sending souls to hell
demons and imps too feel
cold hard and holy steel
Don't hand me down your PC
reforming devil spawn
cut the head from oft the beast
and too the next
move
on
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
Tears come from a tearing of love's fabric
Like blood on a scab they triage the damage.
Pain persists but the outflow will stop
The heart ache is a signal not to ignore.
You control the next steps -
how will you feel?
Healing is longer when you feel wronged:
They will not see your wounds nor care.
For they themselves are caught in a trap
that binds their soul in a ****** clamp.
Rinse your wounds in forgiveness,
and feel for their suffering.
You cannot move forward as they writhe
so long as you focus on your pain alone.
Reweave your damaged trust and forgive
and see the scars as proof you are healed.
I do not condone what they did
But condemning continues the hurt.
Goodbye blame and pain
hello rehabilitated future.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 12:30 AM UTC
I will be pumping gas into a make of car I call off-white when a passerby of guessable hostilities won’t know enough to ask if it’s my dog coming dazed for every one of its legs down the road at me like at a spot it senses I’ve disappeared near and I’ll have to agree with my mind it’s the **** dog for sure and it’s not far from where my boys are huddled in a borrowed blanket smelling smoke and I gather it won’t be long before the dog is nothing more than its best instinct so I let the lever and reach through the space where a passenger should be blowfishing on a window for my last gallon of milk to pour on the car like a rehabilitated pyro to give that dog something to see and something to lick.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC