"reiterates" poems
Deplorable and horrible;
Despicable, abhor-able;
It reiterates, evaluates,
Desiccates, and exacerbates . . .
It never fails, to fall too short,
But always fails as a support . . .
In an attempt to be freed, it misleads to bad deeds
And creates a hunger -- vacuous,
Yet, impossible to feed.
It chases the light away,
And it longs to be alone.
So I am so ashamed to say,
That in my skull,
It found its home.
So I'll fight and fight against it,
. . . But I'll always lose the battle.
It seems that even as I trudge ahead,
That somehow I still straggle.
It is the artist, I am the instrument.
Like a light bulb to its filament.
Every day I'm at the bottom,
Forced to climb back up the hill again.
But I think the day has come . . .
When I've finally stopped walking.
I've reached a door that can’t be opened,
And decided to stop knocking . . .
It's me and who I've become;
It's my actions and what I've done . . .
So, as much as I despise it,
It seems my brain, and I, are one.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
*A sun, we have
belonging to us alone,
a river of ever flowing
cool waters, our own
where fish from my *****
swim towards her
mossy secret chamber,
a blue sky spreads
all for us, where clouds
of our making
wear colors,
we like them to adorn.
No make believe
this world is for us
to be alone with each other,
we carved it
out of nowhere
cut it out like a ribbon
from the map of universe
as we wished.
we are strangers
considering time
in human scale;
but every minute,
each symbolic ritual reiterates,
that we are from too far
where unbound from
the tangles of time and
the elements of a star;
we had known
each other for eons,
light from that far away rays
still shining in our eyes-
alone can speak that secrets, well
she is energy pure--
personified,
Shakti, the female power
eternally seeking Shiva
me, the male in universe
for the dance of creation.*
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
There has to be a better reason
to face each day buzz-less smoke-less sober
than simply not wanting to hurt her.
She tells me I'm a gutless feckless ******
and if I'm not careful, wifeless,
which reiterates my point.
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 10:49 PM UTC
each tempered by slivered moments:
slovenly on the floor lay tethered,
both, separate,
honest light.
when it is time that you do not
see anymore, the shadow of my passing,
when the twilight gives rise,
a felled star in the world,
when damp kisses are beleaguered
by the driest of lips,
out of merely, a wide-eyed vainglory,
there will be nothing that all my songs
send a dancing, tiptoeing light
careful to arrive at one day
when you face is held with utmost care
and my hands not its owner,
but a handful of names.
when it comes that we are two fish
struggling in a current's dream —
not a single twitch is born. you will slip
past the interstice of love's net
and i cannot see you anymore in the
depthless blue.
the intelligence of stone tells me
nothing but silence, hemmed in
to a great monolith of daylight.
i exaggerate, the sinking of ships
and amble blindly with the whole of
my motion, like flotsam weary of its
preordainment. portraits sow themselves
battles, cleaving them minutely against
the simmer of quiet. when it is time
to let you go, i will watch you leap forth
into the ripe air like a child seeking
home, reiterates in flight a height
i cannot reach for.
when it is time all of this,
mote it be, clenches in thinned streaks
of turpentine, all of my walls will be clear
and not a sign of your colour
will scream pain like a tortured vandal.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
he drips red, it smears his face and he licks it off his teeth as if hes never tasted anything like it before
i stain him, inhabit him, and he inhales me, owns me
teeth flash, a not-quite pure white now, against a canvas marred by scars
the feeling when they sink in and his smile curves against my skin is nirvana
i was made for this
he tells me in whispers and between bites that he loves me, that im his favorite, reiterates that im his, and his voice is deep and thick enough to drown in, to be consumed by
i allow myself to be lost
the tears that streak down, not from pain or pleasure but the dangerous, addictive, cocktail they create, dont escape him
he laps them away, tongue warm against my cheek, and i hope they taste sweet like the fruit he loves, tickle against his palate the way his hair tickles my face when he leans in close like this
he presses his lips against mine and i can taste myself there, mixed in with him, our essences mingling together in a dark dance
if i get my way i will linger in his mouth until the stars fall down
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 2:59 AM UTC
Esteem of reflection billowing up whenever one puff fades.
Day in, day out.
Pass in, pass out.
Staring off into space, am I getting better at geometry?
Looking into the line of nowhere.
Physical lines may just happen to converge with this.
Darkness may happen to eclipse it.
A point happens to be on it.
A light happens to shine therein.
Lines may also conflict with it.
Colors may not align with it.
Conglomerations may exist there without any congruence.
People happen upon it.
Muscles and nerve endings traverse it.
Needs cross its consciousness.
Predictions cross over it too.
Some ideas are superseded here.
The esteem of reflection scans all areas: physical, emotional, and mental.
The internal image is destroyed, or ground to dust.
Sounds are implanted upon it.
An imaginary self-concept is manifested on it.
The cycle of new crossings re-circulates.
Like this whole poem only affected my knowledge and not reality.
I sit up.
My body is placed on this line.
Like it is on stage acting for this line.
Cleanliness and neatness cross it.
The esteem of reflection takes on the form of part of my body.
I lay back down.
The self-concept reiterates itself.
As if my body's forms must assert themselves.
Afraid to look at bold symbols.
Afraid to act like I touch the things in this room.
A sense of shared humanity is spit out by my head.
I am the weak and selfish one.
Not esteeming another.
Only esteeming me and my reflection.
Not sharing a room.
Like I'm pulling down and in.
With my head in the sand.
I consider knowledge that isn't directly observed as secondary.
And I don't mean observed in a book.
This self-concept becomes the center which organizes the things that cross the line of nowhere.
It is the best comparison to my physical self, yet a figment of my imagination.
It is shaped more by attention than by materiality.
It's funny how anointing is at once a rising over and a descending.
Yet it cannot fully transform my mind.
For even this blessing crosses the line of nowhere.
And the esteem of reflection rises above it.
But when the line of nowhere becomes the self-concept then the mind is fully transformed.
The esteem of reflection would have equality with the self-concept.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 1:49 AM UTC
This is a place I don't dare to visit
the room is enclosed by four walls,
there are misshaped windows
with metal bars that laced the brick
as stained as a lifetime smoker's teeth.
The grey wall bleed a terrible stench
that brings back memories of pig farms
in the morning after a dampened night,
the walls are coated with red sludge
that is enough to reduce a grown man
to his knees with pleas of destroying
the savage assault on his senses.
In the middle of the room sits a chair
that is positioned right under a bulb
of light that spreads a dimmed vision
to the entirety of the room, the chair
is locked inside a cage as large a space
as the cabinet of a common kitchen.
The bulb swings from its loose wires
that seems to exist as a tangled mess
with the red intersecting the yellow
and in various points the wire
seems to have been stripped of its
dignity with copper exposed in points
that have rusted against the times.
It seems that the swinging light
may never be fixed to a single space
in the vast expanse of the ceiling,
so it throws shadows against the walls
where the chair is mere distortions
between light and dark.
The chair is trapped in a cage
with a lock that seems impossible
to ever penetrate and the break
in the metal bars that has rusted away
is too small for any hand to fit through.
The mildew grows in the corners
where the ground meets the wall
and against one of the four the green
grimy mildew meets the red sludge
enough to give of a yellow colour.
I recognise something against one
of the four walls, it calls for my eyes
and screams for my ears. It reiterates
this is the inside of my mind and
so far I'm making colours of everything
I could ever find.
I've been running my whole life
and in every single light, I am
another shadow casted against walls-
forever imprisoned.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 3:13 AM UTC
Politics of saturation and starvation
ignore sleeping imperative intentions
in this passing light wave,
with matter in tension and
motions of presence colliding
into another in to another
syntax
(spectrums)
like that. Colliding,
categorising. "It happens
all the time" again
the flower reiterates
as it opens to the morning sun
passing through into that
clarity in contradiction
while meanwhile, in the mind
of a small worm, dirt
is brighter than blindness.
Oh where does it go to,
this timid, fragile thing?
Are we reaching
or are we lifting?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
Mindy takes a seat opposite me,
as if we're about to engage in some serious conversation.
Christmas carols would make the background stale
if there was no twist to them.
"Thanks for buying the ice cream," she reiterates for the fourth time,
her potential lover-girl Jaclyn repeating the sentiment half-heartedly.
"It's no problem."
I reply with my usual comeback.
"I'm sorry Daniel couldn't come.
He had excuses
akin to my last three boyfriends,
and you know how long those lasted.
It's enough to make me want to go straight."
"I can make you straight."
"What?"
"What?"
And we continue as if nothing happened.
Jaclyn eats her ice cream as Mindy shares hers with me.
It has a twang to it, a strange flavor she made herself
that you wouldn't expect to be so good until you tried it.
Deep in my core, that ice cream sent a chill through my body–
a chill of uncertainness.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
Very slowly the sky is turning
Turning darker
Soft breeze uplifts
Wind speeds, gusts shift
Meandering unseen
Elements of light pass
through to ******
Silence reiterates it's case
Hue brightens as shadows leave
But murmurs mumble distantly
We wait, for when the anger erupts
and those above engulf us
Watch in wonder at the power
of the gods
Aug 14, 2020
Aug 14, 2020 at 4:14 AM UTC
Happiness; it hides away
No light shines on me today
Soul is made of broken bones
Spirit sings its lonely moans
Tomorrow is a brand new day
The hope is that I fade away
The voice has lost it’s faithful ways
The hands no longer feel embrace
Thoughts they breathe of yesterday
My heart, it fleas; a castaway
Eyes of broken window glass
No time for me, he’s come at last
The darkness guides me, with it’s craze
These feelings now, an endless maze
Can I fix this hole i’ve made?
Can I fix this inhumane?
A whisper of the heart unsung
Tears are falling, still I’m numb
Another one has taken my place
A new name, a new face
I’ve taken my sane
It’s me whose to blame
Couldn’t find my soul a home
Grinded down, right to the bone
Another perfect wannabee
I ate the fruit of apple tree
Could I wake another day?
Could I wake a pure saint?
But time my friend reiterates
This could be my early grave
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 3:16 AM UTC
but with a couple drinks of *****
maybe you'll love me again
and we'll be together
but then again
being passed out on your bathroom floor
with pills in my stomach
only reiterates how hopeless and how crazy i am to only see you
in my drunken dreams
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
Deplorable and horrible; Despicable, abhorable;
It reiterates, evaluates, desiccates, and exacerbates.
It never fails to fall too short, but always fails as a support
In an attempt to be freed, it misleads to bad deeds
And creates a hunger -- vacuous, yet impossible to feed.
It chases the light away and it longs to be alone.
And I am so ashamed to say, that in my skull it found its home.
So I will fight and fight against it, but I will always lose the battle.
I have found that even as I trudge ahead, that somehow I still straggle.
It is the artist, I am the instrument. Like a light bulb to its filament.
Every day I am at the bottom, forced to climb back up the hill again.
But I think the day has come... when I have finally stopped walking.
I have reached a door that can’t be opened, and have decided to stop knocking.
It is me and who I have become; it is my actions and what I have done.
And as much as I despise it, it seems my brain and I are one.
I will tuck myself away, lock the door and here I will stay.
I am right where I belong, hidden by darkness and dismay.
I will mingle with the dark, and the beasts that vanish come the day,
Because I seem to fit right in where the rest of the monsters play.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
fwoah dream reiterates that sea commands all military under fwoah.
fwoah continues to support trump (choo) in this difficult transfer of power. we’ve had the fake news now we’ve the fake vote. china requests transparency at this point in time and recounts in the areas where there was corruption against our ally america.
dra (english commander raf) would like to thank fwoah for continuing to support the military in great britain. he would also like to thank ian of china for making sure that china would never attack. he wants to move forward in action with china and support the idea that evil is no longer in the world. scott advises police support to southern ports to turn back anyone who classes as evil on the new ap.
fwoah advises extra 400 jobs in the south for policemen to id check for evil people trying to move to great britain. fwoah paid 2billion into police funding for this service from taxpayers cash. exchequer has £130 billion and boro was yet again trying to steal money.
this 2 billion spending to be determined by scot of scotland yard with emphasising creating jobs. definitely 400 on southern coast. key phrasing ‘system’ army and police and customs to work together.
emails to changes to government and request for finance to be emailed to www.chinachange.
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 1:38 PM UTC
Love is just a word
Until someone comes along and gives it meaning
Or reiterates that it really is just a word
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 2:55 PM UTC
My son is me in double,
i love him as I love his son.
can I tolerate his behavior?
have I not done good enough,
as a father who works hard.
everything I aspire is for him,
leading him by giving support;
although it is never enough.
nothing I offer are for his good,
giving what I didn't enjoy myself.
emotional tantrums or secular wishes,
listening to his dreams I always do;
on my shoulder to lean I let him be.
My son is me in replica,
as though I see myself in him.
reminding me of the memoirs,
viewed reminiscence of my youth!
i cannot afford to witness him fall,
now that he is a victim of the trials.
Being my son's father,
reiterates in blood by his son.
another me in my grandson's birth,
to walk together to face the challenges,
of being three in one in blood.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 11:43 PM UTC
I , to whom thee attribute the massacre ,
I speak as your creator ,
Thee cameth to me o traveller ,
As a fickle narrator
For you **** me for your fate ,your condemnation
You attend to me as my foundation crumbles to dust
Your sentiment of zeal was mine own creation
You tainted it with your ambition , mutating it into lust
As the viscious cycle of your adultery reiterates
You indict me of being a silent beholder
As the heartiness and probity of my realm eviscerates
My heeds and warnings are met by your cold shoulder
Your embarkments of upsurge , and the subsequent collapse
Rendering my pattern blurred and unrecognizable to mine own eyes
now you stroll over a mine of your own traps
From my great design springs your eventual demise
Tis' not my trial you stand but shadows of your own that you face
As my realm scorches in your blaze, you drown in the multitude of my waves
For thee to elude eternal damnation
O traveller thee shall fade without a singular trace , dawn anew from disgrace
Hence shall come thy salvation
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
It's amazing how many people are not
Appalled by Trump's alternate reality,
Which is fed by political gibberish
That gives it a vitriolic vitality.
The man sees the world not as it is,
But only in how he can mold and shape it.
His main relationship with the earth
Is finding ways to plunder and **** it.
Scorning science and fact-based query,
He is more content to remain
In a protective shell of ignorance.
That's impossible to explain.
Alternative facts permeate
His psyche, leaving him out of touch
With truths that help the world progress.
To him such truths are only a crutch.
He's conned the people into believing
That corporations would never deceive them.
When he and his team make up stories,
Astonishingly, people believe them!
Political correctness to him
Is an obstacle in his path,
And anyone who points that out
Becomes the target of his wrath.
Paranoia underlies
His selfish motives and decisions.
Bizarre conspiracy theories color
Much of the content of his visions.
Compassion to him is strictly conditional
And given with expectations in mind.
Strict adherence to extreme notions
Has made him forget how to be kind.
His idea of greatness is really
A chimera that reiterates
A motto of separation: "We
The privileged of the United States."
- by Bob B (6-7-17)
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC