"renaming" poems
This is for my generation.
A generation full of selfies, in short for selfish.
A generation of women murdering their own unborn babies.
Woman walk around half dressed hoping a man will grant them respect.
As they reclaim their lives, renaming it feminism at it's best.
This is for my generation.
A generation of men that rather play with their hands.
Rather than creating work out of their bare hands.
Lusting for women as if we were created for one night stands.
We are the millennials. We're full of worldly distractions.
Looking for our parents to be the lending tree.
Since we spend most of our money on ***** & ****
This is for my generation.
Can't you see we're slowly dying off? We are becoming too self involved.
While every pleasure keeps causing our own demise.
We're too stubborn to realize our ways are flawed.
We mask it and look for love in other people. Yet, we feel emptier when the love isn't reciprocated. Some call this "unrequited love".
This is for my generation.
I'm here to tell you that, you are loved, you are cherished, and you can be forgiven. You can be saved, not by your works or how much money you make.
If you only believe what He did for you on the cross.
The perfect blood Atonement.
We are the Godless generation. Most would say they believe in evolution, perhaps others would mention God.
This is for my generation.
See, Jesus didn't come for the religious people. In fact, he called them frauds. He's more than just a bunch of rules and laws. In reality, He only came to save the lost. Which lead him to be hated, beaten and killed on a cross. 3 days later, He rose from the dead something Allah never did.
Now that our King is risen, He's offering a free gift of salvation. That's why it's called Grace. Being coming Christian doesn't make you perfect, don't get it twisted. I'm just a forgiven sinner by His definition.
The choice is yours.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:43 AM UTC
I’m sorry I wrote you.
I’m sorry I’m as weak as I told you.
I’m sorry I wasn’t lying.
I’m sorry I never lied.
I’m sorry for all the broken nights
I’m sorry I couldn’t fix them.
I’m sorry I couldn’t fix myself
I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.
I’m sorry I messed everything up
I’m sorry I couldn’t take it anymore.
I’m sorry I got tired of being alone
I’m sorry the permanence makes it easier.
I’m sorry you can’t write anymore.
I’m sorry I never could.
I’m sorry you couldn’t see yourself how I always saw you
I’m sorry you can’t see what I still see.
I’m sorry I loved you.
I’m sorry I loved you harder than I’ve loved anyone else
I’m sorry you made me question myself.
I’m sorry it ended this way.
I’m sorry I kept writing because I didn’t know how not to
I’m sorry you told me I could.
I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you said I should stop
I’m sorry I didn’t listen when everyone said I should stop.
I’m sorry I took all those nights seriously.
I’m sorry I believed every word you said.
Well…not every word.
I’m sorry I became such a problem
I’m sorry nobody listened to me.
I’m sorry for being right.
I’m sorry the permanence makes it easier.
I’m sorry I failed you.
I’m sorry I took the hit
I’m sorry I asked you to do that
I’m sorry I let you
I’m sorry you didn’t listen.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stand seeing the bracelet anymore
Or the pictures
Or the letters
Or the poem.
I’m sorry I can’t touch them without getting nauseous.
I’m sorry the permanence makes it easier.
I’m sorry I don’t even hurt that much anymore.
I’m sorry I don’t think of you as often as I should
I’m sorry you’re not sorry that I don’t think of you as often as I used to think I should
I’m sorry it ended this way.
I’m sorry you don’t care.
I’m sorry I don’t believe your goodbye
I’m sorry I don’t believe any of it.
I’m sorry I don’t care.
I’m sorry I sort of wish it was different
I’m sorry I think this is probably for the best.
I’m sorry I can’t be there to fix it
I’m sorry you let me go.
I’m sorry the other side of this coin is gone,
Your half dozen of these tacos are still here,
We never watched Finding Nemo.
You never finished renaming the constellations.
I’m sorry I never finished teaching them to you.
I’m sorry bandanas are now out of your life
I’m sorry you never wear sports bras.
I’m sorry my hands feel empty and naked
Now that yours are gone.
I’m sorry your hand was the best thing that ever happened to mine.
I’m sorry that was such a cheesy line.
I’m sorry I want a hair-cut
I’m sorry I want to chop it all off.
I’m sorry you’ve ruined that side of town for me
I’m sorry I’m no longer allowed.
I’m sorry it ended this way.
I’m sorry I would want to forget me too.
I’m sorry I kept writing letters
I’m sorry you never read them
I’m sorry I never will again.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC
Look at us pseudo clever race of ignorance,
Addicted to entertainment our only common
Pleasure filled pain. We will fight to maintain
An uncomfortable satisfying false reality
A reality where we all are individuals controlled by
Another uncontrolled individual.
Through a maze of tunnels lies the mystic wastes
Smoke filled shanties makeshift villages and,
Dim lit ***** dens
The marijuana plants in the basement
Grow into the hard wood floors of the cigar rooms
Of an ancient aristocrat mansion
No infested with the ***** demons of the wasteland
Goats amongst sheep, the bring rolled joys
To dying black hearts of the innocent sinful
Humans in our civilized chaos.
Renaming our creators for the simple bliss of renaming a unnamed
Uncreated creator.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
I am tired of **** shaming
Of renaming pleasure as evil
And violence as noble
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
My lingering fire has failed to consider the ruin.
It has raged an Hour past all Hope... As Providence evaporates -
Long before the Landscape is visible to Angels descending.
My annihilation is complete and yet -
I cannot be Undone !
I Persist in Flames, my Vacuum is Defied !
And what Sorrow comes to understand
Can only be described as The Soul. However vanquished -
I am not Consumed...
Merely swallowed whole.
Impervious to the Luxury of Death.
Though my Inferno has no Talisman.
Instead
A Terrible Will is at Work -
Renaming Constellations
To Suit my Astronomy
Is All.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
Her mother named her White Dahlia, the consequence
of unplanned pregnancy while studying forensics. Or so
she told the boy selling orchids in popcorn bags (he ran out
of sheet music and poetry books). Renaming her Orchid
he’d ram into her all night so their breathing would fog up the
windows, an eternal 21C. A common misconception:
flowers have no bones. He learned what it means to
have a backbone when she broke his fangs
like sugar cubes.
A glass slide is too small a coffin for one convinced she
was “beloved”. The strawberry cigarette ash
should have been the tip-off. Rarely
will a botanist throw their own child under Industry’s wheels.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
The leaves are changing their colors like I am changing my name.
No longer thriving, bright, and sturdy on my branch; I am now dark and desolate on the ground.
Making one with perished grass and the worms because it feels like "us" outside and I just don't have the energy to grow anymore.
Renaming myself "Autumn" because I am nothing but dried up leaves on your bedroom floor.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Remind you; present soul
your embers hiding among ash.
Remind you; present feet
struggle to touch--
troubled with lonesome direction,
aimless in their grasp;
far from being graces' kiss.
Remind you; O sun
thy light a conquerer
reveal scars of existence.
Remind you; you
sleep not of tire, or escape,
rest as perfect reflection
and polish thy loves
to dull scars of existence.
Remind you; peace
like a dawn light folds
and ease thy fear.
Remind you; ancient wisdom
thy knowledge and fame
is as just its face
once your carrier is entombed.
Remind you; worlds
your's is just as doomed
as high love is fatal upon fall.
Remind you; words
as just comparison,
Renaming fear;
to truth.
And remind you; the road;
Thy road you are a spirit
of eternity.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
Within the hour our bodies will slow to nothing
but the gentle beating of snow muffled drums.
You will take your arm out from under me and
I will turn with it, for you are keeping the warmth
for yourself. Our skin is rapidly cooling in the night
breeze from the open window, the gossamer drapes
billowing like ghosts. Goosebumps rise on my arms
like marching ants and I want the blankets around me
in a cocoon of body heat but I don’t ever want to move,
ever, ever; I want only to spoon up behind you like a
warm animal, skin like salt water taffy under the moon
in the window, framed painting of two lovers. With my
ear against your back I can listen to your heart beat,
shaking me apart like a tribal dance, bells on my dress
keeping perfect time, and I kiss your freckled shoulders
like a star map as a night owl coos in the branches by
the window. It puts us to sleep like drifting astronauts.
Gone are the kisses you give like building empires in
my mouth, conquering and renaming; now is the time
for slow pecks and flutters of eyelashes, dark smudges
against the cheeks. Now is the time for sweet touches
of fingertips against gentle skin. Now is the time for a
quiet rejoice.
(l.b.)
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
you are in the middle of things,
insisting importance – you would feel
shivering in the distant blue
of another girdled spark and there,
in the not-so-distant sky,
I reach for damp perimeters
and have your face conclusive
with whiteness, sure of its glare,
crossing the frangipani outside
my home; silence leapt borders
and now an incident. uninterrupted.
resolute. absolved.
although so suddenly moving away
kiting around and perhaps death
will deal its part when love’s done
with its tedious labor – and it will all be
moments of bliss, two people renaming
necessary haunts, laughing
in the dense air, keeping an ear for
the spring of yourself.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
silence is a balloon in my hand. an erratic saxophone with notes as blue as doves
strangled in noxious space.
android Jesus, not quite the shadow, verily the toppled light
renaming things underneath its parasol – hundredfold of monikers
and a solitary weight of love.
this is where the blood starts to make sense in its cold shrill:
a dagger making its way towards my back. here are few routines of ablution;
a conflagration of bodies. razed sandalwood. first to go is gravity. last are the bodies
helium-gorged, afloat – there is an immense price for solace.
cyclic spectral cyclic spectral
there’s man in ox but never an ox in a man. can you feel the tenacious drone
of the oncoming storm? can you feel the Sun so sick of its diurnal labor?
can you feel the tantric *** of dew? its sensorial fissures?
butchered serrations of grass are like torrid piles of moist ***** ready for ******
again, here comes the quietus. on the loathsome table lies the shrapnel
of last night’s carnal invitation. a moth not named Marieta circumnavigates a bayonet
of elastic fire. here comes the marauder of quiet again,
in my hand, a round, red, silent balloon – I let it go, in such relentlessly hoodwinked
pursuit towards a god that may or may not know how
to dance underneath the bludgeoned beat.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
I have diverged so far
To call myself “she”
If I go further more
I will not call myself
At all.
The god of dreams has taken me
Long ago
I knew it when I drank him
I feel him in my throat and stomach
In my blood, under my skin.
Dreamer in life
Have you forgotten your mind in some of the corners
of your dream?
Dreamer in life
When exactly did you lose the smell of where you live?
Dreamer in life
Some look and yearn for your wake look.
But reality is grey mortar and cigarette butts
Every sin a misconception, every love, dust
You wake up each day with seated lethargy, willing to stop
And where will this all lead if you do not…
No.
It’s easier to go insane then to remain conscious
The diluted air covers me and I know it to be easy
To float away from the dark and ***** soil where all chains
are known
and kiss my forehead.
No.
I diverged sufficiently
Already I call myself “she”
A bit further and
I will not call myself.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
A ragged self
Detached from meaning
Confused
Unable to connect
Trying to make sense
But failing
And starting again
Replaying memories
Renaming realities
Reframing experiences
Cut-off
Not allowed an ending
But not allowed to continue either
Stuck
This choice leads backward
This choice loops back around
Caught in circles
Not
Victim or
Culprit,
Hero or
Villain
Detached self
Trying to understand
Caught in the quiet
Lost in the noise
Waiting to move
Clearing the path
A ragged self
Caught
Lord, please show me the way
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
Two souls make one Home
Will you be my ride or die?
In your eyes i confide
My love for you is as the Ocean tyde
Pulling you in
We are ancestors of a lost city
Nothing about this is supposed to be ******
Two brains One heart
A complete work of art
How can everything be nothing and nothing be everything
How am I found yet i feel so lost
Learning to write again
Everything feels like Zen
As I write this for you with pen
You have inspired me and set me free
We are so much the same
I'm back on my game
Good luck taming me
Were changing rearranging proclaiming renaming fate
It's all in our hands
Baby let's get these bands
I hear the commands to conquer these lands I now understand for anything we can withstand
The gods have whispered in my ear loud and clear
Instilled me with fear that our time is near
From this sphere we will disappear
But for now lay your head on my chest
Your heart is free to rest
Please don't be depressed
This life is the last test
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 5:56 PM UTC
What if I started calling you what you really are? Here are some possibilities:
the ashtray taste in my mouth after three cigarettes
the calculations of how tired I’m likely to be when my alarm goes off at seven in the morning without you
that acid taste when my heart climbs up my throat with the alcohol
the gnawing crawling insomnia that’s partly about you but can certainly be traced back to thinking about the way you smile when your face is really close to mine
the potential liver failure or at least what my liver has been processing straight into my bloodstream every hour
the warm hum when I turn my truck on to drive you home--you’ve stopped asking me, I always drive you home, but you don’t call me chauffeur. In fact, you pointedly don’t call me anything but my name, my whole ******* name
your arms tightening around me in the back seat and your face--your smile--pressed against my shoulder
your throat when you swallow Fireball like it doesn’t burn you inside out (you burn me inside out)
you apologized to me twice and I know you don’t apologize
the queen of wands the queen of wands the queen of wands
the fact that all my pooled, vague desire has started calling you by name. I’ve never felt it say anyone’s name and it won’t stop talking about the small, quiet, beautiful things in my life that have everything and nothing to do with you
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
He builds you a cage
making the walls out of honey and dew to lure you inside
Putting in windows only to then glue them shut
He shouts “you can leave whenever you **** well please.”
Relishes in punishing you with black magic-
that leaves you dizzy for days whenever you try
Wilts the flowers you grow for company
Convincing you it’s your fault they always die to begin with
“If you would just be good maybe I wouldn’t have to do this.”
laces you up with ribbons and spider silk
Reworks you until you are docile just in his image
He’s a dead ***** necromancer and you're the best of both his worlds
always on the cusp of being half alive
He takes to gathering bouquets of your dead flowers
placing them on the windowsill
His voice renaming and whispering spells to them
every time he visits you
until they are gleaming once again
eventually you see this act for the warning it is
Sitting pretty and doe eyed
You now only shimmer and shine if it means he will let you stay
- You’ll learn one day that this is not happiness
Jul 21, 2021
Jul 21, 2021 at 5:11 PM UTC
In our small town of Hixton, Wisconsin,
The future looked decidedly grim.
Population was down to four hundred
And we all thought its best days had been.
We’re a small town North West of Milwaukee
where U.S Thirteen passes by.
Here the median age is past forty,
with less than one girl for each guy.
The town fathers were in a quandary;
scratching their heads and their chins.
Half the houses were vacant and boarded;
Just a trickle of tax coming in..
“Our churches are bare ruined choirs,
Our young finish school and they leave.
The town as we know it is dying,
There’s only one chance of reprieve!”
Some thought it an outlandish suggestion.
It offended all those who believe.
“The renaming of Hixton, Wisconsin
must be done with all possible speed.”
“Desperate times demand desperate measures;
This is the last card I have up my sleeve.”
It was done as our Mayor suggested
and, as hoped for, the new blood poured in.
Our post mark is much in demand now;
Since we began living in “Sin”
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
difficulties ascertain the tremor
of the displaced stone in the corner:
stones have truth, and life so much the not, like the lilt of mendaciloquence
dispersing in a dearth home—
everything else is rinsed,
assuaging the dermis that continually aches forever the thorn of a rose ripened,
just as jazz is as always the music listened to by fellows hungry for Earth.
the wind blows spindrift past
our opened window when we slept next
to the churning sea. shadows renaming space: elegies of old metal rusting
seeking more than what silence provides.
roads confused to a kink. furniture kites along with it, a toppled light like sinking the fruit deep into the hands of a river.
our flights become only so heavy
when we become wary of the love we
drag along. when we the small of our
back and the bony protrusions of arched
bodies become
aware of the detritus. when blades
of grass rear weight of the air bracing
for the fall.
our flights become only so heavy
when we look back at our point
of departures. our spanked curve
of trajectories, permutations of
open doors trying to do away
syncopated tapestries anchoring
our dripping bodies wet with what
the snow has lent our
numeral summers—
forget.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
Canada is renaming the Great Lakes.
Lake Superior..........Lake Canada
Lake Ontario............Lake Ontario (stays)
Lake Erie...................Lake John A. Macdonald
Lake Huron..............Lake Jacques Cartier
Lake Michigan........Lake Trudeau (that should **** him off... but we
know we mean Pierre, not his bonehead son)
Lake Champlain....Lake Quebec (although not a Great Lake, the
orange guy wanted to make it a Great Lake back
in 2018).
We have our own cartographers.
Gimme the Sharpie.
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 8:02 AM UTC
i.
on such frigid atmosphere lay,
a serene fugitive.
do not look at me with such lithe eyes:
the sepulcher is only starting
to begin.
your sleep's regimen twice-folds
origamied on the quiet cloister,
hang there, puts to test the unblinking
certainty of we who bear no retrieval.
ii.
remember when
all the fish you gut and all the *****
you cleave were all but meaningless
fill?
a mutiny of stench is released,
as men continually purged you of
your poisons — us mortised to this
vague mandate.
i have wished for them to miss the mark.
i have longed for them to mime only
but your placid face.
they have ransacked the quarry of flesh
flashed bare against mirrors riveted
to split-seconds of hours.
iii.
when i was young,
much sleep was needed — a noonday travail to all fretting but a dream of dogs.
now this thump of quietness
may mean no recovery.
the speculations to gnaw for sleep are
lost in a blink of an eye:
the blanket that once smelt of camphor
now engulfs in a single blast of cerement.
— this scrap of a thing that we
almost have no use for.
iv.
a furious consideration of roomfuls
disallowed by a heady ruling of
emotion's precision.
that, of the most difficult choices—
knowing where to fecundate rest.
your body heeds
no metaphysical reckoning.
the preordained space for you to occupy, this unwanted silence that keeps
on renaming things we cease to forget.
a sentence seized by a clause of wood.
all too soon to wave as a single beat
is thrown a hundred ripples into my
eyes, dragged along and trundling there,
left lengthening to leave, never to wait.
not with time, nor with a touch we choose
to contest — but an eyeing space,
a moment to attract transience.
v.
i will only look at you once — lacquered
with solace.
no ellipsis of breath could continue you.
no paragraphs would forgo of your
punctuations. i deny my defeat
against one who brooks with victory.
no hint of other chroma.
a chiaroscuro of beating petals,
left only to thrive and not swing
with verdurous display.
how to tell if this is true?
i touch myself as words gyrate
in the room that received your body
like the lighthouse that feeds the sea.
— or maybe sheathed with the untruth.
this enigma yields no revelations.
too late to ring yet still continuing on,
an early drop of dew.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
well, poetry begins by suspending reason,
unnaming and renaming everything ,
taking apart the small parts and making one big metaphor.
calling a flower your lover,
or pain as a roses thorn,
a smile as the sun,
a frown as a crescent moon,
and of course stars ,
they have to be included,
as sparkling,
butterflies are forbidden in modern poems,
as are roses, to which I alluded,
my bad , though,
I see poetry as anything
you feel deep enough to
try to write a poem about
and makes you feel
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 4:50 AM UTC
it was raining that morning – so much the effloresce of colors
making their way back into the sky; there were the strangest forms of
clouds, their bodies assuming shapes and geometries, obscured angles
like that of two coiled lovers on a bed, whose bones ache the septuagenarian
but still at ease when it comes to building fire; no birds were out that day
and the busy binatog vendor blared into the streets like an unwanted nuisance,
it was already afternoon when you had your eyes wake up to mine,
your simian jaw curved to a hook of the C in crescendo, your voice the twilight
and the familiar passing of birds, the gush of blood inside of you;
there are such speeds that ultimate a crash, or a fragment – the semantics
of motion do not appeal to both of us, but we ceaselessly exist in those
moments when all of your movements summon, say, the sea, but that is a metaphor
used overtime, overwrought and taken out of its blue – say, your grandfather’s pendulum
watch impaled to the wall on a heady standstill, face to face with a linoleumed wall
that shouted its age – its superficial maquillage falling out of its slenderness
fashioned to secretive ****** something both you and I know, something that does not
come well with age, something that only some shadows choose to eschew in light.
in a faraway place, there might be parakeets but this time, underneath the cusped sky
and the parasol that was drenched by drizzle that we let dry by the doorstep,
there is something about the gnash of rusting metal-work that tells me time has its own
way of claiming things, renaming them, and bringing them back in awry stances nestled
in tight, wrestling nooks of space, dark and dust on ground – keeping us leaping in place,
swift with dreams of wings and aviaries, be it elocutionary with farce
or just keeping it real by the unreal of our imaginations – like birds swell in the sheen
of the sky’s flayed bone, sliding in and out of the fringes of the aureole until such gardens
are flustered with monochrome: this perfect dagguerotype of day.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
this is another form I would like to lose
but what is a man to inherit but the empire of sleep after
being caught in a virulent web of dailiness?
sometimes dreams are as empty as Manila
on a Sunday – requiring things I do not understand,
so as the departure of leaves to bring back the same existence,
the parallel rawness, and the exact hundredfold inflorescence,
a blank synthesis of light is another conundrum
as sidewalks remain steely and squalid
holding themselves up to surrender; when another drone breeds
sound from a distance, one is reminded of how gently songs in themselves
break inward and release fully, a cloud of regret, leaving things and renaming
them loose sobriquets;
and when all else have gone into total darkness
I will sit beside everything else that closes its eyes to the world
and rejoin them in the familiar and see nothing but the rest
of beautiful things ignite to show scars and leave
us all wordless, losing
this strange form of living.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC