"repetitious" poems
I stopped writing for awhile
For I had started to forget
Forget what it was like to
Be left alone again.
After you had left I was abandoned
With my own thoughts I had to write
A love as pure as you is something I cannot find over night.
And for some time I was there
Stuck in desperation for a little more
Left to try and repair my body
My life stuck in a repetitious bore.
But slowly I pulled myself out
Finding serenity through friends
Peace of mind came quickly, easier
I found that my thoughts of you came to an end.
I participated, I went out
I let others hold me as you once did
And slowly I found life less lonesome
To open up and be happy again.
But once more you came back knocking
With hopes to drag me in
And in my foolish glee, I accepted
And I went spiraling down again.
I got caught up in speaking with you
Then forgot that it would soon end
For when you got what you had wanted
I was left alone to fend.
I'm quick to jump to conclusions:
Maybe I could get you back again
Or I could always turn and find it easiest
To stay laughing with my friends.
But we both know that I won't choose the latter
I'm weak and foolish to try to crawl back
But that never matters
*For I'm addicted to your attention
And I slip down at your suspension.*
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
We hear it at the grocery store,
from Walmart, and the bank.
From the guy at the quick stop,
when we fill up our tank.
They mean well, I suppose,
every time I hear them say,
the same old repetitious words,
“Have a nice day.”
Sometimes they even say it
when the day is done and gone
Day and night, wrong or right,
Those words keep rolling on..
Well, just in case they have no clue,
of anything else to say,
consider these alternatives,
to “Have a nice day.”
“Hey, I’m glad that you came in.”
“I hope to see you again.”
“I appreciate your business.”
“Good luck to you, my friend.”
“Be safe in your travels.”
“Come back again ok?.”
“Thanks a lot, take care out there.”
There are other things to say.
I’m glad I have that off my chest,
I’m sorry I feel that way,
Thanks for listening. Gotta go.
“Have a nice day!”
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 10:27 AM UTC
He is
walking the white line
his arm a repetitious arc
sounding a single tone
timed to the pace
of hiking-boot feet
treading the pavement.
Saffron robes have grayed
over long meditative miles
witnessed by curious commuters
riding the pendulum away
from his purposeful daily counterpoint
the freedom held
in rhythmic ritual
how the mind stills and gathers
in the swinging blur of hand and stick.
I roll the window down
seeking precious solace
as I hurtle past
knowing
he walks for me too
I want to stop the car
fall in behind
feel the timeless drum
the stillness of salvation.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>
fluids in, fluids out
wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,
so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive
make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their dire warnings repetitious
tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid
is strong transformed into words
water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again
water is words, words are water,
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate
place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
I look with worried eyes, at social Vines, of flashing lights and a lack of rights.
Human compassion is lacking where it needs to be.
Hate feeds off of hate,
but if thats all it takes,
then **love should come so easily.**
Bashing in windows.
Spraying with mace.
Choking to death.
Eliminating race.
Classes are gone,
So classless mistakes,
are now made daily
at the hastiest rate.
We’re starving and hungry for the tastiest taste,
of what has become the most delicious
most suspicious,
vicious,
fishy,
repetitious,
superstitious,
vision named freedom.
It's naive to think we’re free when all that we see,
is a sea of beings not being one thing,
and that’s free.
When was the last time you felt it?
And we’ve been given a life long song and dance of "whoever smelt it dealt it".
So if you took the feeling of now and held it,
bottled it up and shelved it,
you would open up to find your mind in decline.
This moment was better
while laters behind.
Thats the path that we’re on
but we have control.
We’re not egos and clothes,
we’re people of souls
We're humans of thought
Not students of hate.
Evil got a head start,
but now truth is in the race.
And if truth is in your face,
and you choose to look away,
then get used to the abuse
and not confused at truce-less fates.
The pre action of action is thinking to act.
I'm thinking that actually we’re ready to snap.
They’ve bent us too far,
for us to go back.
The past is a place where patterns attack.
And people are put
no matter the facts.
Police are afoot
demanding the last,
of freedoms they take them,
and **** them with gas.
A historical scene on Kentucky blue grass
these colors don't bleed,
yet we see they fade fast.
We’ve exceed the need,
to keep things intact.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
Forgive the malicious repetitious dismay.
This quarrel so vicious, flagitious swordplay.
Inauspicious foreboding, one lover’s display.
Seditious naught, my miscarried parlay.
Delicious divulging- in this adventitious decay.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 4:27 AM UTC
take some time to count, to verb
some syllables for some wrecked
page. a Lostman's book in ****
tered thought; nature, and death,
and sole body. then, when she talked
about her better years as those of
drug-induced past-life. younger than
yesterday kinda years. that which finds
metronome slowing, the Universe energy
vibrating weaker while growth found in
apathy, and solid death of purposeful
movement.
then a shot,
that moment to break from wretched self-
criticism -- that post-idyllic criticism --
that which hinders forward movement.
the shot,
which finds contentedness thru some
repetitious mentality . .
[lost it]
. . repetitious fallacy?
[got it]
let's leave some break for transmigration
in thought to prelude of forward movement.
understanding now is not enough; but
agreement in hast. but dissolution to that self-
efface hit rapid. brought back, her thought
of the younger than yesterday years; now,
now is the greatest point of any a count-
less past-life. from them, no matter a sweating
season, the Long Dark, or the cycle-seasons,
all is now. and never
did she or i talk of the past again.
our foci, [one second]
drawn to point of second and next second upon
following and on for another. now, shivery
wine-drunk, reminiscent of tiny furnace and
woolen blanket apartment. that now,
that was true striving of second successful ***** Den.
a great thought downfall; she's been long gone.
[next second now]
she complained of the wind. her eyes were freezing,
she said; her life has begun to bore her, she said.
we moved to playground and climbed in the
slide; a nice dampening. cold plastic barely felt for
her. this Long Dark, and in it, an always fleeting
warmth. [break
to **** for concision in thought]
now then, a diner, of course this face is known. they also
know a companion vacant. asked of, pleasant enough;
responded, well enough.
[disheartened, well enough]
and then, wholly intrinsic with a blasphemous self-
Oralee while passing time trying to think. unable,
if only for sole point of trying. and epochs worth,
thought and gone; now compulsive, now unres-
ponsive, now chewing lips because they're part gum.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
* *A tear is shed
For those who are blind to the beauty of this world
Who can only feast on sarcasm, writhing in irony
* *It soon evaporates.
Pictures of a future dressed in ribbons and lace, cast off and burned
Pictures of the future carrying disdainful dystopia, infamous for invalids
Hung to admire in sublime distaste by those that seek knowledge
And see the repetitious antiquities of time that come to pass
But others care not for plans and the imminent
Those that keep to the light of the gas
And carry the past to the present
Hoping for trends to try again, reliving what they had never lived
Laconic and loquacious in emotions and words
Against the gossip, but paradoxically
Pushing for the creation of their “ritualistic social Golgotha”.
Those who abuse the glory of their munificent, malicious mentality
Pathetically unable to procure authentic happiness
A tear is shed.
Inside the recesses of the soul where emotions dare not dwell.
It too evaporates.
Trapped in fear and the “cliched harlequin speech of suicide”
Begging for the masses to cast them out and find each other
A tear is shed.
Never seen but felt as it evaporates.
Felt by those who envelop themselves inside themselves
Those who plagiarize their sick self-conscious souls
Those who bring about the very misfortune they strive to devour
Those who are effortlessly envied as they exploit their habitual recreations
By those who wouldn’t dream of falsified euphoria
Those who bastardise and deface the name of creative individualism
As waters of the soul are purged and discarded
They are felt by those
And are quickly washed away in doubt and regret
Keeping to the light of the gas, dangerous and warm
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
She moved with all the grace of a garbage truck
this is not to say she was graceless altogether
only that her movements were rollingly robotic
and she was prone to fits of repetitious arm-swings
with a physical presence neccesary
though sadly underappreciated
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 11:49 AM UTC
A plane made of tin cans soars in flames through the sky.
Black smoke trails its tail as it plummets to ground.
I stand.
I watch.
unfazed.
The nose of the jet crashes to the earth and it burst,
into tin butterflies,
which undoubtedly, to the skies they return.
I wake.
in the same room,
in the same bed.
the same place was I, when the sun rose,
and dove into the horizon.
the same sky,
the same clouds.
the same smell of the sewage rising through the streets I trek.
the same people at the corner store that check,
for loose cigarettes, gossip, trash talk and street knowledge I bet.
I forget.
I'm confused.
What may be normal for you may differ for me,
when gang members intimidate everyone they see,
on the crowded concrete streets of Broad St,
bums ask for change for something to eat,
then run to store like ***** for cigarette.
Is this "Normal" for you?
for me, its as plain and repetitious as a scratched CD.
I wish you could borrow my soul to understand me.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
September 11
M.O.N.D.
Modified Newtonian Dynamics
... speed on the outside of the galaxy and the centre is the same ...
what about relativity?
In blackfoot I can talk about 2 days backward and 2 days forward
A 3 day road
That's it my friends
Don't go by the 12 month cycle
Like 50% of 7 billion
Go by the 13 moons
Circular?
Not quite
Time is repetitious
Reptilian
Might be a better interpretation
"Every year we perform the same ceremonies ...
We sing and chant the same songs
There is even repetition in the songs.
Medicine Wheels ...
The main axis is aligned with the solstice
0.07 degrees off because of procession of axis
Possibly ...
Don't go past 2 days ...
September 12
Unaccountable, maybe ...
September 14
Not accounted for ... maybe not
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
He's the Raven that's anything but dark
Not mysterious or melancholy
Repetitious yes, but not a negative "nevermore"
Always a positive and encouraging word
Never met a poem he didn't love
Less black, more white, like a dove
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
His life, he’d been frequently told,
Was a stepping stone to
Something better. His growing religious convictions
Taught him about the different levels
Of god.
The innocent child, sacrificial man, distant father,
Steadfast sister and mother.
It taught him not to lust after his pretty neighbours,
Man or woman, nor to daydream
Of unlikely trysts with all the inherent dangers
Involved but to expend his energies
In religious ecstasy instead
Agonising inwardly over the beatitude
And the internal landscape of the soul.
By the time he was forty, he reckoned
He’d got a raw deal. No money, no career,
No friends, just a lot of ****** prayers.
They put her coffin gently in
And he cried, watching it disappear
Unable to think of heaven.
He was not consoled now
By thoughts of
Infinite life.
The slow sounding of a repetitious tune
Amongst cloudy vistas of
Over egged benevolence.
He’d missed the boat, through
Worshipping too much. A rotund
Middle-aged man
With a sagging mind, brown teeth
And old fashioned clothes.
All he had now were his church
And his mother’s dying friends.
He threw dust over his mother’s grave
And walked softly away.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
The moon will always rise
The sun will always set
Life is full of mass regret
Redundant
The rain continues to pound
The leaves always wither
There's never anyone around
Repetitious
The clouds float by
The breeze gently cools
Another day, another cry
Repetitive
The flowers bloom
The torrents flow
Yet narcissistically consumed
Over and over and over
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
Never will he perish
For he'll remain with me
Tarnishing my soul in the wake of his memory
Tangled up in my memories
Constantly blaming me
Incisively
Trenchant is his face within my mind
So hard to disguise or hide my plight
Wishing it was but never will be past-tense
His presence lingers
Pulling at my resistance
So persistent
The knots wrap tightly to my wrist
Bound to the same grounds
The thoughts place this as they manifest
Repetitious history
Evoking inevitability
I wish the tears could cleanse and mend
The taste of blood is too metallic for my pallet
As I descend bitterness fades leaving disgrace
I am not to blame but I bare the shame
However I cant regret knowing his name
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
You gave me a dozen roses
Thinking it would ease my pain
But instead it only reminded me of what I bear in shame.
I accepted these flowers and again you do the same.
The repetitious behavior that only a boy can bring.
Never learning from the mistakes and forever making more
Not a man, but still a boy that fails to understand the value of love.
These red, red roses...so beautiful and fragrant.
The intent behind which they were given already withering away.
I dare not place these roses in a vase, but instead return them today from whence they came
For, today I make this promise...you will never have to give me roses again.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
My spirit wants to do right, but the flesh is unwilling to comply. That's why it must die. Daily. Crucified. All the affections and lusts, crushed with the weight of his Spirit hear to comfort mine own until this mind disownes every thought that exalts itself against the one on the Throne. Adonai, El Shaddai, Elohim, thou most High, Prince of peace, never cease, to amaze, the Blood connected to the earth and awoke men out of graves/I refuse to be sinfully enslaved, hiding in dens and cavs like the ones his goodness tried to save...I understand you Paul, you did what you didn't want to and didn't do what you should have did, yet the Master forgives. I wanna live burden free, no hurt in me, I don't want to subconsciously hold on to the flair of dramatics, rejecting a life lived peacefully while repetitious requests prayed vainfully asking God to take the pain away yet rejecting his orders so the pain can stay. In a twisted way, some people depend on there own misery, no matter how much they complain about it. Because its either what they know best or all they know, and familiarity can be a mental, emotional and spiritual ******* that most...can't let go...well Lord im willing. I'm willing to let go of the past that you already have a long time ago. I'm willing to see myself through your eyes. I'm willing to allow you to turn this anger into joy, this easy irritability into long suffering, this pride into honor, false humility into the one we clothe in..im willing to allow all the pain the sting of rejection gave me over the years, to place shamelessly in your healing hands, im willing to give you the violin, that I've used to play the songs for every pity party thrown within, Upon personal request, while partly oblivious, to the world around me is dying in sin. Lord, continue to help me locate the man I was always suppose to be. Reveal him to me. Describe him to me. Develop me into him. He's been waiting for my embrace for too long. And I'm ready..to put away Childish things..
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
I knew not what life was
As the assassins fired upon
Wars forgotten
Where even the frogs within fog
Were accused of high treason
I battle my own life
Each knife wound drawing blood
Every day a trek through the mud
And what have I got to show for it,
Except some unknown reason to praise
A God who lives above me
That never seems to show His face -
Maybe I'm looking in the wrong places
Events cease to produce themselves
Once the motion has stopped
The raindrops dropped on me as did
Tears I swore I would never shed again
But the bane of each existence
Is identical to the soul to the left and right
That's right - the darkness knows your truth too
Taking while breaking
Sworn on oaths with undertones
Of rebellion and oil money
Where each world away
Is a land that rests on eternity or
Being buried in repetitious flames
And my alcohol soothes me
Like Her curves bend and flee
In a Fall wind that is just about to begin
I quit with this
All the way down in this
God awful pit
Alone with every bone
As my tomb begins to close
And a new life careens in a swing
Whose motion is as foreign
As the faces of old kings
Calling across metallic membranes
Of a time that holds no prisoner forever
Closer, closer, to a place without forgiveness
I call and hear the echo of my own voice
And know truly that I draw nearer
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
What makes you so sure your sickness need not be heavily medicated?
You walk around, your body hanging like your favourite outfit that you never wear anymore,
stumped in a box
The street lights breathe like the cigarette that you smoke at the end of the night and regret immediately after,
the cigarette that tastes like glue,
The pads of your feet blink to the floor,
Your soft eyes watch the people and their smiles, they once represented jealousy but now sail past you like leaves of boredom from nowhere,
You chew on an energy bar as the purple plants, bike riders, suit case carriers and fire hydrants stroll by,
You make fists to fit eye sockets, but your hands stay by their sides
waiting for the courage to find the change that promises never to come,
You sit on the bench and wait for somebody who might chemically excite you
Your mouth clamps shut and your food rots inside of you molding your breath,
The dog walkers follow their excuses not to be lonely
and you crave a machine to make you feel better,
no human will do,
And the cats purr against tree legs and look at you as though you are stupid,
You sit around your friends wanting more intoxication
anything but this elasticated dribble of saliva they call ‘the gang’
Because another ‘gang’ is just another situation where you can feel alone and misunderstood again,
another metaphor for your life and incapability to feel comfortable,
You bathe in quiet awkwardness that only you feel
and cry when no one looks or when no one decides to see,
And you wallow in the self pity that sleeps in beer cans and wine glasses
searching at the bottom of them for someone who can relate to your loneliness,
And everyone thinks they’ve got the answers but you do too and you think the answers are no good either,
You call out on roof tops in the loudest voice your thoughts can muster
And the teachers who get paid to care have given up too,
So you sit like an old book being read over and over again melting to resemble an instruction manuel or something equally repetitious,
And you wait for the time to pass,
and the people too,
You wait to be interested by something,
anything that will comfort you,
But you seek solace in the smell of dustbins, petrol, sea salt, beer froth and your hands in the shower,
And hope that they’ll all
come together
and somehow
let you know
it’s going to be okay.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
A beast,
only a little frightening, a little wicked.
Only as much as possessed
by demons in Scotland.
I don't know if it was just
the cocaine-induced acid-psychosis,
or if we really swapped lives,
and shared with Burroughs in the Sahara.
In any case,
we share the joke of sacrificing children
in repetitious ritual.
We fiends, we leprous pariahs,
who know too much to be safe,
and too little to be truly dangerous.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Eleven strong went in to bat
When dusk was in the air,
Eleven strong did face the wall
For others had shown flair.
They'd mustered up a goodly score
They’d shown they had pinache,
They'd demolished Tunnel bowling
And made our field work look a hash.
Eleven strong went into bat
With gritted teeth and ire,
Eleven set the pitch alight
With galantry and fire.
The leather ball was massacred
A pounding it did score
With repetitious boundaries,
Drilled cover drives and more.
The marker looked excited
The sweat ran down his brow
And as the score did level
He had to ask the Angels how?
And the providences shone
Upon this galant Tunnel team
For Claude's classy, deft square cut
Ensured we grinned the winning gleam.
Cricket is to Englishmen
As golfing is to Yanks,
And cricket played with pageantry
Make the civilized give thanks.
And cricket played with elegance
Fills the English heart with joy,
And Victoria Park Tunnel Team
Have downed an ale to victory's ploy!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
Auckland
17/2/2010
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
God
Please hold her
As only you can
Would you curl her up
In the palm of your hand?
And be with her
When I cannot?
Would you attend to her most every need
With efficiency
And make her well when she is not?
Because you know how she is
How she has these beautiful wandering dreams
And occasionally such restless thoughts
Would you speak to her now
With an voice unseen?
And reassure her that you are indeed the king
The creator of time and everything
Would you curl her up
And keep her more closely
Than ever she would've been to me?
Will you do this for me, my dear Lord?
Have you heard my prayerful repetitious plea?
If so I will stop until tomorrow
And finally try and get some sleep
Would you comfort her with immortal arms?
From a prayerful, tired version of me
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC
Every day, these walks get longer.
Every hour, these hands, they tremble.
Every minute, these eyes get weary.
Every second, this existence is fading.
As light approaches this darkened room,
We are shrouded in to the fog of melancholy.
Devoured by misery, consumed by life,
Slowly and slowly we burn into nothingness.
These gaps exist with the soul of our hearts.
The void of joylessness approaches.
All these *** that emotions can’t afford,
Our tears are kept in a jar.
What sick, ****** contagious lives we have.
We are fools to the repetitious cycle of despair.
We continue to gaze at the fields of the condemned.
How about a cigarette for us to breathe?
But let us quench into the foolishness of life.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
Main street
The ebb of traffic leaves me sick
This is a city of repetitious fits
Transparent monotony
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC