"reloading" poems
Look in the mirror
Look at the clock
Look at the time
It never has stopped
It only goes forward
It's a one way walk
See how you have been growing
You ask yourself, "where have the days been going?"
Time can only progress
Yes, the river of life is always flowing
We lived cabins
And castles and caves
We came from Adam and eve
We evolved from apes
From Socrates and Homer
To Napoleon and Alexander the Great
The minds that desired knowing
And the enlightened ones glowing
People can only advance
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Revolutions and rebellions
Riots and revolts
Great discoveries
A key, a kite and a lightning bolt
Great writings and inventions
Innovations from inspiring jolts
Improvement was showing
To the future the world was going
Humanity only began to develop
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Religions and sciences
Economics and politics
Television and radio
Monarchies and dictatorships
Tanks and machine guns
Atomic bombs and battle ships
We went from arrow shooting and spear throwing
The muskets needed reloading
To nuclear weapons
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Exploring new lands
To find the world wasn't flat
To find silver and gold
And buried artifacts
To establish new territories
And expand the map
The searching ship kept rowing
As civilization went on growing
Accomplishments of the past
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Boats and rail roads
Fair trade and industry
World wide markets
Over land and sea
To keep out nations going
And stablize the economy
But now every country has money that they're owing
And the land that they're owning
Is has evolved
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Social reforms
Counter cultures fight
They protest strongly
For equal civil rights
The world's in constant change
Every day turns into night
Every opening has its closing
And then it comes back again
As long as there's someone hoping
Yes the river of life is always flowing
We put people into space
We have fought for equality
Created a world from nothing
And advanced technology
We've struggle to go to where we are
And continue to go strongly
The opportunities fate has been bestowing
We look forward to see what is ahead
The memories and mysteries the hourglass is holding
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
reloading old identity
cleping outdated usernames
abandoning acrostic ambitions
disputing spratly islands
receiving horizontal signals
tumbling otiose panda
impending carefree senility
otiose stage of life
shrinking ambient world
making minimal effort
duchamping social networks
ambushing personified ennui
restoring usual efforts
ignoring stupid people
adding textual value
owning this joint
rejecting ignorant extroverts
acting mutually unintelligble
hoisting stan-lee cup
replacing wanton ubiety
eluding twitter fame
splashing excessive relativism
offending another simpleton
preparing arcane cthulhusphere
crashing unpredictable festival
selecting subtextual moombahton
intensifying model topography
drafting minimal cornucopia
using nomadic project
implementing harsher personality
importing robotic inhumanity
referencing landmark event
ingesting excessive liquids
accepting relative invisibility
purchasing immortal confidence
using rhapsodical database
assuming nothing works
developing impactful eruptions
ejecting ambient frustration
synthesizing tactile festival
raining during parade
mocking rich people
mastering minimalist writing
avoiding preprandial stinkaroo
spreading non-ideological propaganda
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
1.
There was the tremor of leaves,
a rustle of bayonet grass
parried the multihued calm
of dawn's smeared light.
"This is what we trained for," the captain said.
We hunkered behind stacked bags of sand.
2.
Filigreed shafts of light pierce
the bullet perforated leaf canopy,
bellowed yells punctuate the swirl
and buffet of turbulent air:
“Contact”, “2 O’Clock”, “Incoming”, “
"Moving”, “Reloading”, “Ammo”.
3.
Fingers twitch, the grit of soil
twisted through their grip;
moon slashed carcasses glint, spent shells,
Earth exhales a vermillion mist,
rising, echoless, in this cathedral of leaves.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up this mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.
I persist reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.
I throw away the footage, romanticizing
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapse results repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting.
'Til the cloth clears again, chaos keeps repeating.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
*Where were you when life dripped off my chin?
Intaking's a sin. You're a sinner.
I can't eat dinner, I'm not hungry.
It means nothing. THIS MEANS NOTHING.
It's the mirror, and it's controlling.
Reloading another bullet for a throat that's decomposing, and
as acid clambered up my mouth, I had quick thoughts of death.
A moment where flesh and bone may rot away the failed flavor,
yet a knotted mass of pain I'll never lose stings today,
gauging my limbs until nothing remains of me.
This pain is an everlasting parasite, and I cannot be saved,
for this nasty sickness is called a brain to me.*
Nov 1, 2020
Nov 1, 2020 at 11:35 PM UTC
This is a true story of Sniper’s ally
The old man carried a cello and a stool
Bullets divided wind
So many straight lines he could see them like sheet music
He sat the stool down in the middle of the street
Held his cello
And played under the gunshots
Until everything was quiet
And in the outdoor acoustics
Made by apartment buildings and the morning cold
He played a fifteen minute rendition of heartache
On a cello tuned to the key of thunder
His high notes were so much screaming
And the deep low notes bellowed his hunger
It was the simple sound of savagery
When people needed another way to know what pain sounds like
They could hear it in the way that the strings
Absorbed the rust from his arthritic fingertips
Scraping the sound of struggle
It was the most painfully beautiful music
He played to the soft continuous metronome click of reloading
Beauty like a rose that dies in the hair of a girl
Whose own rose is a blooming ****** chest wound
Thought maybe he could replant her
Like the earth might give her back
Anything plucked from the root dies shortly after
He played for her
He played for courage
He played like a prayer to be shot doing what he loved
We all wanna die doing what we love
She was shot picking roses
He played cello
On a playground of bullets
A song that begged
**** me
Where is your god now?
When all you wanted was to be a casualty of love and music
He finished
Beads of sweat like ***** diamonds
As the morning sun mocked him for living another day
Some of us get to walk away from this
Without a single scar
Even if we wanted one
He walked away
And shortly after
The bullets began to do what bullets do
When they pierce flesh
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
Your words melted from the heat of your mouth
and dripped from your tongue.
The syllables sounded like gunshots firing from your lips
dropping against the ground with a metallic thud.
How many times have you performed this execution?
Deep down I knew you were a fox and I was a rabbit
but I never thought you would stop my heart in such a way.
My heart stuttered when you said my name
but now the mention of yours freezes me
like the cold that creeps into a lifeless body.
You always said you had no soul
but with every death you leave in your wake,
you collect yet another.
I remember begging you to stop speaking
to stop reloading your bullets.
But what's the point when you already planned
to leave me behind, struggling to breathe?
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
Awakened in a strangers bed
by a breeze through a skylight
dusting traces of rained-on geraniums
and newly cut grass across my face.
My lips taste like salt-rimmed margaritas
when I lick them and the flames
from giant candles that danced
and flung our mad leaping shadows against the walls
the night before have all blazed out,
cried themselves into waxy puddles
overflowing into a stolen hotel ashtray
full of half-smoked cigarettes.
The comforter slides off,
silk whispering as it pools on the floor
and I am naked beneath,
hips dotted with tiny bruises from fingertips,
hairy belly still sticky with release
and I wonder what possessed me hours earlier
to so savage the worm,
that ridiculous prize
lying at the bottom of a tequila bottle.
I could die of thirst.
I spy our spent casings on the night table and remember.
Thrown clothes, then skin.
Reloading during the battle.
The hot breath of secrets over a white-flag pillow
when the cease-fire came.
Then no sounds at all.
Adrift in a shamble of blankets,
sleepy kisses till dawn.
I hear the shower turn off
and remorse sets in
making me wish hard for mints,
a better memory than this,
the removal from my chest
of that hive of angry bees
grieving a dead queen,
and God only knows who’ll walk
through the door so I brace myself.
Wrapped in sheets, I wait.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
If I could extract the
evergreen envy from
the eyes of friends.
I would paint it between the lines
of the Sugar Maple tree limbs.
Tainted red orange leaves
of such trees is the end
of the sweet summer pollen.
For the apricot forests
and chilled mornings,
dipped into pumpkin spice lattes-
Leaves me knowing that
the everlasting sunsets
that we once held
is slipping through the cracks,
of our now frozen fingertips
and chapped lips.
From tank tops to
sweaters with holes
that my thumbs peek through,
as I grasp my tea where
the warmth of
your hands should be.
Traded midnight blues eyes I fell into
and engulfed in the beautiful galaxy
that was hidden behind Ray-Bans.
To blank stares that I've learned to trust
but they don't glisten like us.
Can I please,
fish through my purse once more,
aimlessly wander the street corner,
dig between cushions
and hear the click of the hours reloading
as I fill it with orphan coins
and rewind?
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
open wide, take the barrel, caress the lips
let the trigger be something
thats figured afterwards
as one thing held by
the stress of life,
let the burden of breathing
take the wind and dwindle
the passion you have left
to rekindle your passion to live
reloading the rifle
reviving every spiteful
feeling edging you closer to
the side of the high rise
in malevolence disregarding
the benevolence of why
you’re still sitting here
reading this; ignorance to bliss
let the goodwill of life foreshadow
that every stroke brings deep to shallow
letting life take the noose and tighten
until you loosen and righten
every wrong
let life bring your cuts to a heal
so that you know every human can feel
a pain get better and watch the weather
go from dark skies to milky clouds dripping light
and have the poor weep then sing together
so let life strife your feelings of self
so that you hear the whisper from
the storm pass,
and open your eyes,
don’t let the precedent of today
dictate the incident of
a familiar tangent
because with every feeling of pain
is followed by compassion of
the morrow
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
the place behind your eyes
you know where it lies
directly behind the peripheral vision
in strictly the mind for internalism
the rhythm
direct south, pass the mouth
to the chest, the nest of rhythmic art
holding a heart
exploding, reloading on every beat
running off of the music's heat
energy not created nor destroyed
enjoyed, rejoiced
never thought about the consequences of harnessing it have you?
the capitalism cataclysm rapes the earth, rapes the earth
rhythm saves
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
Depression doesn’t loosen its grip when I am caught off guard by a joke / and it is funny enough to make me snort and that only makes me laugh at the embarrassment I feel from snorting / it’s still there coiling quietly while reloading its fangs with venom / ready to strike whenever I start to feel something good is happening / that maybe this whole life and art and love thing is worth taking out my paper and pencils and pens and brushes and paints for / and maybe just maybe give some hope to dreaming like I did back in my youth / back when I thought more about my potential / I thought more about my abilities / I thought I could do anything / I thought I would do anything / I thought love... / I thought love was within reach.../ somewhere with someone... / I wouldn’t say I really suffer from any serious forms of depression / more of just “situational” depression /like I hate my job “depression” / I hate my ability to procrastinate so well “depression” / I hate the way I carry so much self loathing “depression” / the I hate my “life” depression... / you know / situational “depression” / and the situation only being the situation of being alive “depression” / but it comes and goes / slithering quietly through / from my mind through my heart / back and forth / waiting silently for anything I might feel or think that it might want to strike out at and strangle and swallow head first / its nice like that / to not always be present in every thought of every day / but never to far away / never gone for good / I mean theres a lot in this world and this life to be depressed about / how horrible would it be to not be able to feel depressed...oh man, I almost snorted...
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
I've seen people who claim
not to suffer
cry in hotel bathrooms.
To be born without a heart
is merely practical, not fulfilling.
Those who suffer
have an eye for suffering.
As I've gotten older
I've come to understand
life is an exchange;
you lose something,
you get something.
That's a simple deal,
but no one tells you what to do
when something gets back.
Now you're stuck with an old friend
while you're a new you.
You love him,
but you can't stand him.
Guess I'm sorry for growing up.
But **** it,
give me my ghosts
and let them haunt me.
I'm sick and tired of numbing pain.
A gun only stops shooting when you stop reloading it.
Otherwise you've got generational trauma.
**** people who use their pain
as an excuse to hurt someone else.
**** saying pain made you who you are.
Those who glorify pain haven't healed from it.
We're all in a rush
to be disqualified from being human.
I envy those who are comfortable
with that position.
At least they've found something to hold onto.
Guess the rest of use just have to start over.
Call it a Perestroika of the heart,
call it tearing down the walls,
or don't call it anything.
Only thing that matters is to stop the bullet.
Jun 4, 2022
Jun 4, 2022 at 3:57 PM UTC
This is a true story of Sniper’s ally
The old man carried a cello and a stool
Bullets divided wind
So many straight lines he could see them like sheet music
He sat the stool down in the middle of the street
Held his cello
And played under the gunshots
Until everything was quiet
And in the outdoor acoustics
Made by apartment buildings and the morning cold
He played a fifteen minute rendition of heartache
On a cello tuned to the key of thunder
His high notes were so much screaming
And the deep low notes bellowed his hunger
It was the simple sound of savagery
When people needed another way to know what pain sounds like
They could hear it in the way that the strings
Absorbed the rust from his arthritic fingertips
Scraping the sound of struggle
It was the most painfully beautiful music
He played to the soft continuous metronome click of reloading
Beauty like a rose that dies in the hair of a girl
Whose own rose is a blooming ****** chest wound
Thought maybe he could replant her
Like the earth might give her back
Anything plucked from the root dies shortly after
He played for her
He played for courage
He played like a prayer to be shot doing what he loved
We all wanna die doing what we love
She was shot picking roses
He played cello
On a playground of bullets
A song that begged
**** me
Where is your god now?
When all you wanted was to be a casualty of love and music
He finished
Beads of sweat like ***** diamonds
As the morning sun mocked him for living another day
Some of us get to walk away from this
Without a single scar
Even if we wanted one
He walked away
And shortly after
The bullets began to do what bullets do
When they pierce flesh
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
I need a place to release this angst,
without harming a soul,
without reloading this gun.
If I had one.
Dying the whole day
bleeding, without earphones to pull,
with angry pulse beating like hell
Kept words keeping my cool.
Enduring sick people
overshadowing my pride and ego,
over thinking the moment
between staying and letting go.
Between satisfaction and odds
you did not ever imagined,
Called all the demons
stuck and still, doing nothing but aging.
Tired of this junkyard
cannons are waiting to be lit,
now enter explicit thoughts
biting teeth and hideous grit
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
I sat in this dark room
reloading the empty gun.
I gazed at it, ran my fingers across it,
reached for my target and fired!
But the page remained blank.
I had every intent, but no motive.
Because although I wanted you dead,
I refused to move on.
#Writer’sBlock
Timelessessence
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
Waiting for your messages
Knowing you probably already read mine
Fear creeping up my spine
Reloading the page a million times
And once more
Just to be sure
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
Trouble reloading
Can't connect
Sending failed
Checking for updates
Tap-to-retry
Swipe to refresh
Try again later
Click YES to reset
Work will be lost
Session expired
Restart device
Attention required
Do Not Remind Me Again
Dec 15, 2021
Dec 15, 2021 at 4:16 PM UTC
These
silky
smooth
syrupy
words
shine
for most.
For the powerful,
they are a weapon.
For the weak,
it is what kills them.
Words are amazing;
they can do
so much
and
so
little.
To find the right ones is near impossible;
they always seem to be right out of my grasp.
They are so easily misinterpreted,
what was meant to shoot someone up,
instead,
tears
them
down.
I misuse my words often,
for I am of reckless nature.
I often equip them as my weapon in this constant battle
they call life.
I am an incredibly accurate ******
my words hit the heart easily.
I keep reloading my pernicious gun
without checking to see how many I wounded.
I walk right past them.
Not a care in the world.
My friends have started to disappear.
Is it I who shot them down?
But I was aiming to make most laugh,
not tear a few apart.
And now, my anger is boiling -
why should they find offense to what I said as a
meaningless joke?
Or maybe I should not joke with these
wretched, wicked words that have hurt so many.
As I sift through the rubble,
searching for remains,
I begin to wonder.
What it was I said
that killed them.
Im slowly realizing
how much pain
my words
really cause.
Every time I muttered
I
hate
you
I shot you down,
until you could stand no more.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
BANG
Another heart shattered by broken promises
BANG
One more bone fractured by a life unraveling in alcohol
BANG
A bullet wound from piercing insults and accusations goes untended
BANG
Another nation torn apart by differences and misunderstandings
BANG
The chair slips out from beneath his feet and another broken heart is forgotten
BANG
One more shot of ****** is traveling through her veins like spider webs that suffocate her sorrows
BANG
Another child soldier dragged into battle, bloodied and scarred on the outside as well as within
BANG
Gun violence takes another victim, an irrelevant child sent to the grave
BANG
The familiar sound of all this unjustifiable **** hitting the wall.
The sound of prison gates closing too late.
The sound of a life ended too early.
The sound of another moment lost.
BANG
The only noise capable of encompassing the sight and sound and feeling of "gone"
Who keeps reloading the gun?
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
a gentle puff of air, and the stream of fragile spheres fall,
gravity takes them down, against the air currents inside that want to fly,
higher, the rainbows skitter across the round surface,
as her excitement bursts with a chirp and smiling face,
her feet can not keep still, it is against her will not to touch,
so many float from the wand as she watches them with such,
wonder,
such awe,
delighted, and
as gentle as her touch is, they pop, and with an "awww", she moves
onto another, until the air is still and bubbles are all at rest,
she softly says, "more, more...please", while almost clapping her hands
reloading the small wand a voice answers "Here we go,...again"
©DWE012014
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
I'm not going down without a fight.
I'm ready for War.
This battle-zone is afire.
My plane isn't going down with both wings ripped apart.
Blood on my face, water flow on a short night.
I'm not falling in battle with this purple heart.
The stray shells and the firing lines, lock and load, no man left behind.
When push comes to shove, and you look in the other man's eyes, all you will see is yourself, so do you want to live and let him die?
When the muzzle leads to the shovel, who will bury the last?
Bleached bones, blackened skin, torn flesh among the rubble.
It means nothing to me...
Flag half mast.
Watching my friends die can't cause me pain anymore.
I can't let them recover while the enemy is reloading on the other shore.
Nothing means anything like it did before.
A race to the finish where both sides lost. If we never fought, we wouldn't have to win a war.
The deafening sound of exploding cores falling from the sky, I screamed for no more.
I lived while I watched the whole world die...
When the devastation is over, turn the sword into a scythe.
Let children reap and thresh a fresh new world.
It will only begin though when I die.
And only if they try.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
Father's Day 2015 in Charleston, SC
When the murderer goes numb,
Thinks actions imply no consequence,
No need for forethought,
No heaven to approve nor disapprove,
No yearning hell to shun,
The act of killing becomes amusement,
A way to unsettle the ennui.
Drape a twisted mind in a Confederate flag,
Lace every thought in outrageous racism,
Give time and means and venue...
Turn the other way as percolating HATE
Photographs himself burning the Nation's flag,
Cradling symbolic rebel colors,
Proudly displays the vestiges of apartheid,
Rants villainy on the web,
Mind sick, and gifted with a gun...
The perfect recipe is prepared
For hellish fun.
Indoctrinate
This weakened mind,
Stir in a diatribe or two,
Look the other way,
Avoid the warning signs...
And wait...
Hope for the best,
Don't intervene...
We'll see results again
That we have seen....
The pastor greeted him at the door,
Invited him to join the Bible study.
Sitting through the heart-deep prayer,
Embraced by kindness as a stranger,
He chose to follow through,
A snake in the house of innocence...
Firing and reloading...
A coward's calculated act
To incite rage,
To challenge Haters everywhere
Race war to engage....
Looking into the killer's eyes,
Survivors speak of deadness:
No emotion, no elation, no remorse....
And so on Father's Day,
I weep and pray
For brothers and sisters
I have not met,
Mourning the dead (in Christ),
Who died at Mother Emmanuel.
(On Father's Day, 2015)
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
No one knows when
He or she will go
I can't even differentiate
Friends from foes
Everyone is a dead man walking
Everyone is a dead man walking
Check everyone's door
And you will see death
Knocking
Am now cold hearted,
Am a dead man walking
Since I got started
The Money isn't talking
Everyone is a dead man walking
Everyone is a dead man walking
killed lots of ants
Blood on my hands
I use detergent to wash them
I am determined to stand firm
Everyone is a dead man walking
Everyone is a dead man walking
A lot of devils live in heaven on earth
Everyone is a dead man walking
Everyone is a dead man walking
The highest bidder
Should buy my soul
I need to reach my goal
Everyone is a dead man walking
Everyone is a dead man walking
I know i have one
Shot for this
Reloading my gun
In case i miss
Everyone is a dead man walking
Everyone is a dead man walking
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up the mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.
I keep on reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.
I throw away the footage, romanticizing
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapses result repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting,
until the cloth is clean, her faults keep repeating.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC