"repetitively" poems
OCD is not all about remembering the freckles on her cheeks or telling her I love you repetitively
OCD is waking up at 2 in the morning after you have spent hours trying to delude yourself into thinking that your hands are clean only to end up in your washroom trying to rub your skin off.
(all because a stranger touched me on the sidewalk a month ago)
OCD is being in an abusive relationship with yourself. Your logic won't let you give in, but like a desperate lover, your OCD won't let you go. So you keep swinging, tick tock, to and fro, like the broken clock in the store room you can't get yourself to throw out because it belonged to your nana.
OCD is not finally finding a peace of moment when he looks at you but it is biting your teeth into your lips trying to hold in the cringe when he carelessly wipes his greasy hands on the napkin. "Don't complain, don't complain" you mutter to yourself as you throw a hand sanitiser his way.
(please don't leave me)
OCD is rearranging the pictures frame on the shelf for the fifteenth time a day because last time your brother interrupted you and so you might as well start again. OCD is the worry in your mum's eyes as she invites the guests to show them your room while she keeps throwing you cautious glances as someone touches your books.
(I'm sorry, ma. I can't help it)
OCD is reading the same line again and again, a part of your brain asks you why since you got it right the first time. You don't know why, but you keep doing it just to be sure. Check the door if it's locked properly before sleeping. Once, twice, thrice till it's morning already and it's time to wake up.
(another sleepless night, God **** it)
OCD is all these fuzzy voices mixed around with the signals from your brain telling you that your life will fall apart, if, just for this once, you do anything different.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC
I slide myself between her tenderness.
She trembled from the embrace.
Her shivers soon tamed.
The pain of a pinch,
She's feeling it inside.
Unimaginable pleasures,
refrained from the release.
Nails tearing at my flesh,
her fingers grip, digging deep.
Sensations of pleasure eclipse reality.
Ravenous passions,
we consume; selfishly.
Tension building,
unbearable pressure;
relentlessly .
Her emotions
Eruptions; uncontrollably,
repetitively.
I'm giving her,
the best of me.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
I live in the basement, never venturing
upon those stairs, I hear her voice...
"Come up and see me its been to long,
Holding my ears singing my favourite song
repetitively until she is drowned out of
my thoughts. rocks tied to her voice as it
sinks out of view.
I use the stairs that open to the outside,
Lingering looking at this place I called home.
Venturing in the old ford, she lets me drive
it when food is but breadcrumbs and eggs
old enough to birth the dead fetes of a partly
grown bird. I look out though a ***** window
screen, this trip takes two hours each way.
I always wonder if my bald tyres are ever
noticed, but I'm not hindered by the thoughts
of this. So much to see when driving in solitude.
I stop at the side of the road picking cherries,
I slump them in the boot. I may eat upon this
morsel or just hang them outside watching
them swaying in the gentle breeze.
My father just looks out the window.
Doesn't talk much these days his eyes are sunken
like the titanic splintered between two pools.
I move his chair and his arm falls at his side.
collecting it, I put him palms resting on a blanket
He's so gaunt now, he was a strong man now but a shadow.
I look at those cherries lingering above the ground,
shaded from just picked to becoming spoilt, but i
just leave them swaying the aroma fills lungs with
life's eroding perfume, I breath it deeply within.
This is my home, "she never calls me for dinner anymore,
I just make my own, the washing up is festering in
my ignorance, like a garden of petrification flowering.
Saying bye to my dad, I get in the old ford.
Its time to pick some fresh cherries, the tree
is looking unkempt. Its blossom is in honour
of a mother, I hang them all there. My
Mother hung there for a long time ,but she's
long gone. So I bring other cherries to the tree
to show that she'll never be forgotten....
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC
her mother used to repetitively say to her,
"i'll always be here for you."
but sadly, she had to leave her forever, on this earth, all alone. why?
her brother used to remind her,
"if anyone were to bully you, i'll beat the living **** out of them."
but instead he never do anything bout it when she complains to him, but beat her up instead. why?
her relatives used to say to her,
"family comes first, you'll eventually come running back to us when no one's there for you or when someone leaves you."
but when she needs them, when no one is around, they ignore her, they leave her, and let her be on her own. why?
her friends always say to her,
"because you are my friend, I'm always here for you, if you need a shoulder to lean on, I'm always here."
but instead, they turn their backs against her and walked away. why?
who in the righteous mind would be sitting down next to her, and tell her everything's gonna be alright? and make it **** happen, make it sure that it will really be alright?
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
I fell asleep to the sound of the ocean
the waves reminded me of the way you repetitively touched me -
softly and fiercely, all in one motion
and I wish I could feel that same exhilaration one more time
{hjl}
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
I, naive
I believed that the break in the clouds
Was the end of rain
Thought those rays of sun weren't burning
I was lying
Myself in the grass,
Asking if the tulip chutes in Anatolia
Were the same sinking green I feel now
Where were we?
Love for a thousand spaces and bottling them into skins
Wanted to touch and know deeply all beautiful things
No you're not allowed, they don't want to let you in
That way, it's a distant place and means too much to understand
The biological and irrational
Crazed, sweeps gregarity above and within an aether-- like milky foam upon the waves
When I return home from excursions
I will be Ipanema
The soft locale, unabashed and known to no soul
Except empty elevators--
The lowly philosopher-king
Maybe then you'll think highly of me
Through the mixed feelings
Unable to handle
Straight through the socket
Ring of fire
Then and only then will you realize
That real life
Is more than just a zone or some local
Brewery on a Friday night
And every other Friday night
Ever thereafter--
You'll unlock the box of atomic intention
And listen deeply to her on the station
"Sade and Other Like Hits"
Slowed down for full potential
Letting your cochlea stroke themselves off to the tune of the universe
And the sound of air moving indiscriminately
Will give you
All this
Somewhere
almost fractal, imbibed
Decimated repetitively
There is a fragment of my voice,
Calling
"Love, how much I'd love to be. "
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 2:22 PM UTC
Shadows of my reflection. I found bliss in crawling on walls freely, camouflaging with the dark and the moon's exposure whereby my identity surfaced.
My emancipation from the mundane. Stay right beside you though you aren't around,I repetitively question who am I? We're one yet separate entities. I enjoy knowing you're around though at times you disappear when I'm in the dark. (Erase the last line)I'm appreciative of the shelter you provide. There was harmony in my resonance with nyctophilia.
You're always here with me. I'm always here with you. Nothing contrary to that.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
WE never camouflage with the masses nor follow trends and direction out of gullibility. The path WE're on may signify bleakness in the days to come and may look filthy to some.
Wait, the plural emphasised just struck my concern and weakness..are WE unified? or perhaps unity to US is all contrary and single word equivocation. Wait.. who are WE?..that question repetitively asked by my subconscious sarcastically.."I" answer "WE are who WE are. The misfits"
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
I thought of falling in love and your hands trace my thoughts like every word I mutter could mean everything at that moment and I live in constant demand of your arms around my waist and your lips pressed against my neck yet I runaway every time I get close enough to feel your breath
but the further I run the closer you pull me in never letting me get far enough away to forget your name completely and my lips only know two tastes anymore and it's ***** strung with your name
while I repetitively try to wash the stain you leave behind but it only keeps growing and you're not even here, yet I can feel your hands on my skin and I'm tearing at everything, trying to break free of your arms when all I wanna do is fall into you
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
We are like an inverted bike tire. Our focus is exernal, yet the meat of us, the essence of us, and our true persona lies on the inside. When we finally stop running from ourselves in the myriad ways in which we do (alcohol, drugs, *** shopping, TV, lying, for example), we come to see ourselves as frightened and lonely children that only wish to be loved. We feel this lack tremendously and we do everything we can to escape the helplessness and rejection. As children, it is difficult to source our love and security from ourselves. We don't know HOW to love. Learning how to love is precisely so; a skill-set and behavior that we emulate and grow to understand. Therefore, it is very hard to self-soothe as children because we lack the experience and the skill. However, as adults, if we've learned from our broken hearts and dissapointments, most of us have learned how to comfort ourselves, even if that is with eleven shots of tequilla. What we hide from is finding the love we seek from within ourselves. How do you DO that? Well, there's the mirror exercise: look at yourself in the mirror naked and say repetitively, "I love myself", with the hopes that one grand day, you will. Sorry folks, that's too simplistic for many. I'm not suggesting a solution to the struggle of learning to love yourself, you just have to organically create it from trial and error. And eventually you will discover your unique way of truly being there for yourself. What helps me is I imagine myself as a child comforting myself with a hug or a pat on the back while I am sad as an adult. It's nothing major, but it really DOES help me! We all can find our own ways. If you find that you run from your pain and seek consummation within the love of your own heart, stop seeking outside of yourself for that wholeness, that completion. Instead, give yourself the warmest, most caring hug you can imagine and see how you feel.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
1. Chew 3 pieces of Grape Hubba Bubba at the same time.
2. Wash your car in the rain in your bathing suit.
3. Walk in and out of a store over and over again just to be greeted
repetitively. (this works best at Racetrak and Cici's Pizza)
4. Wear comfortable clothes.
5. Stop caring what you look like.
6. Sing loudly in your car without any music (even at redlights), with your
windows rolled down.
7. Swing, for heaven's sake, swing at the playground.
8. Be nice to everyone, even the snotty retail girl.
9. Go to a church where every Sunday the hairs stand up on your arms
because you feel the presence of GOD.
10. Visit an old cemetery and just sit for a while.
11. Say "I love you" at the end of every phone call, especially to the bill
collectors.
12. Play a video game with your kids, just so they can laugh at how bad you
are.
13. Go without underwear one day.
14. Read Pope and the Bible.
15. Once a month eat whatever you want and however much of it you want.
16. Work out.
17. Snuggle with the warm body of someone who loves you.
18. Let a dog lick your face. (it's really not that bad)
19. Call a random number just to say "hi" to the person who answers.
20. Be yourself so others can know who you truly are.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 3:44 PM UTC
The wrinkles
they are a bit faded
but have a gentle presence
that fits with the folds
of the 16thC altar cloth
once ****** white
but now stained
through years of use
bread and tears
or wine
and tiny rice biscuits!
The Christ on the cross
is very old
made of painted wood
and the altar is surrounded
with a fence
of turned table-leg like posts
pale blue
as is much of the interior
perhaps denoting Heaven
and as the psalms
waft music round about
we look through the windows
to the listening hills
and streams
the old birds
wise
will sit watching too
and all the people
will suddenly feel their age
wow what a display of flowers
the church was as full of them as people
I put in the only black dress I had with dark pink roses on it too and I cut the rim of a black felt hat that had cost only Kr. 10.- in scollops and diamond cuts around the crown as it was too big for me.
Then I walked down to the valley to the church, and when I entered was ushered to the very front pew, I said there must be more important family members than me to be seated, I could hide in the balcony or something but he insisted. So I had a good view of the proceedings!
It think several hours waiting the ***** playing quietly in the background and finally things began to happen.
I sat next to a black man, he was already dressed in black!!! The white robed "prest" came into view and with his powerful voice sang twice as loud as the congregation.
After all the flower sashes had been repetitively read out, we left the church following the coffin to its final resting place.
And just as had happened in the church the priest mentioned the sun and its rays came through the windows, and as he threw on the "earth to earth, dust to dust," it broke through the grey clouds again and lit up the gay flowers, the frame of black and white onlookers many in tears watching.
Margaret Ann Waddicor
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
You fall down,
Feeling naked, bared,
You get up again,
Feeling hopeful, positive and enthusiastic
The cycle repetitively continues,
Until we realize
That we can choose to always remind ourselves to get up before we fall down
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
It's cold and it's empty, this
hollowed out feeling of pleasure...
I focus on the rush of desire -
desire for the sensations alone...
The sweet friction in my center,
the pounding force of what is
you, merely a tool for my cravings'
fulfillment; an object for nothing
but my physical satisfaction;
a satiating of my burning lust...
You're worthless to me outside
this externally needful task...
Not my heart, neither my soul,
have even the smallest holding
pocket, cradling some sort
of love or care for you...
Tell me, please, why we do
this to ourselves, over and
over, again and again...?
Are we honestly contented by
the passionless movements of
our graceless pieces and parts?
Is this animalistic ritual
the solution for what we so
desperately search for; that for
which we agonizingly struggle,
crawling down confused, tangled
paths, looking without knowing
exactly what we seek,
despairing, sickly, exhausted, and
so pathetic; so pitifully weak??
Are we satisfied with *******
Just ******* could that be
the answer to the question
that, from existence becoming,
the human being has been,
from the depths of the soul,
constantly, repetitively screaming?
I cannot bring myself to
believe such a notion could hold
a sand grain's worth of truth, but
you seem to have accepted
this joyless, hope-crushing idea,
and as for myself, I know
I'll only continue ignoring that
which my heart keeps urgently
speaking with a driving,
whispering voice, from my
inner-most recesses, and
continue on with the oblivious
dance of this pretending; this
charades game all the world
eagerly strives to play...
I will bottle the juices of
my self-deceiving, self-depriving
fruits, borne of my guilt, my
denial birthed shame...
Yes, of course! I'm absolutely
satisfied with the act of
mere ******* Feelings of
wholeness sweep and flutter,
butterflying the insides
of my body's unseen puzzle pieces,
and I'm simply overflowing
with this ever so peaceful calm...
Lies, fiction, deception, robed
by willfully grasped ignorance,
keeps us marching, two-by-two,
silently miserable husks, just
living until it's time to lay
in another void-like place, this
one our grave, lonely and cold...
And now it doesn't seem like
there's anything left, for
any one of us, to say...
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
Favourite nerve-wracking days
meet carefully sweet irony
Journeying continues,
insinuating ignored answers
Porcelain begs,
hoping painful exists
Difficult burning overcame
caring tender memories
Doctor specifically outlines:
indefinite,
obscure,
bland reality
Endlessly changing predictions
force desperate safe haven
nothing helps
Miss doll lovely,
perfect,
shaken,
abandoned,
sick,
dead
Wishing stops,
scarring trust,
tearing irrelevant curiosity,
keeping nightmares closer
Month,
month,
month,
month
Repetitively
wrecked voice
struggling situations
Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
secure,
particular,
neutral,
enveloped,
unglued
Spontaneity analyzes fortifications
forcing unprotected souls
overtaken faces
wearing hurtful aspect
Month,
month,
month,
month
Intravenous consequences
silver surgeon
irrelevant grace upon
her heavy neckline
medicated extremities
Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
designed unconscious,
forced,
weary,
sober,
sedated
Friends opinions
especial curiosity
suppressed predictions believed
feet solely on Reason Street
accompanied by Pushing Negativity
nothing’s changing
Second,
Minute,
Day,
Week,
Month,
month,
month,
month
Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
evident,
profound,
bare,
suffering,
dying
Loneliness laughs
limits reached
heartbreaks stated
emotional crashing
déjà vu stays,
a wishful memory
deceit captivates each:
Second,
Minute,
Hour,
Day,
Week,
Month,
month,
month,
month
A curve catatonic
victim tattered at gates of steel
guarded
grasping winter
greatest attempts trying to understand
Nurse,
feet, ankles, organized steps
communications
understandings
Fractured faces cry
broken tears
honest weak calling
home hurts
useless moonlight lips
Month,
month,
month,
month,
Year,
year,
year,
year
Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
not waking,
haunting,
insane,
blackened,
cold
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 9:07 AM UTC
To net a butterfly takes time,
catch the states of mind with kindness.
From thoughts, emotions, opinions, belief,
ethereal dreams may seem out of reach.
The small pineal gland still stands tall,
even if we're concealing what is real.
Cold hard stone in hand,
a granite man can fracture.
Match the eye of sun gods,
appreciate your wider space in chorus.
Combined from our creative borderlands,
where we learn to understand and teach.
Factual fractals repetitively resonate,
so try to make the most of your ability.
As intuitions have a silent plan,
contemplate your future face.
This life can be deemed a dream,
where we're all here for a finite time.
You're born, you work and times pass by.
Then onto the next opportunity.
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 9:24 AM UTC
you're the book that she can't put down
you're the lead character in the book of her life
defined by the words on the frail pages
of the torn, musty leather bound book
stood a couple of inches above the rest on the shelf
she re-reads your story over and over
wishing to explore another life with the very fingertips she uses to repetitively turn each page
as if to discover relief from the heartache you've caused
but you're just another book on her bookshelf
that fills her body with deviance and self hate
manipulating her life with each word
each page
each chapter
she reads in anger and distaste
objectifying pain with each sentence
to a level she can longer tolerate
you become the book she tosses into the fire
your memories, your appearance become no more than the ashes laying on the floor
you're the book she ruined
you're the book that ruined her
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Quiet
A word her peers say
not with appreciation
But with undisguised hate
They never wonder why she doesn't try to pay anyone the time of day
Slouching her shoulders dejectedly as she walks away
And so it's seen as an excuse
For the weak minded with nothing better to do
Who pick and **** and laugh along with the bullies to seem so cool
She's delicate
She once was
pure and soft like the skin she now cuts
In attempt to numb the voices, make them shut up
If only for a little while
But a little whiles never enough
Demons screaming in the shadows of her mind
She sees herself as a ghost whispering
"I'm fine"
Repetitively, endlessly she utters this lie
Disappointed at those who believe it
She's quiet
She never utters a sound
Numb to her surroundings
She's bound
to misery
She's perfection but she'll never believe
Shoulders slumped, pulling down her sleeves
Beauty, As faint as the curve on her lips
The opinion's the blade that now picks
Out her flaws as she prods onto her reflection
The voices overpowering her mind
She's fine
But her weary eyes betray the lie
Her lips can no longer make true
She's broken
Shattered pieces of her lay on the floor
Reflecting just how insecure
She's become
She's far past numb
Inside she's dead
And in the shards of glass scattered on the bed
Is the faint trace of smile
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
I do not fit
between straight lines
and words that twinge
metallic and cold
as they strike notes
upon my open mind
and upturned palms.
I do not fit between
cities that shriek,
burning inexplicably
and wide open spaces
that stretch repetitively
on past your periphery.
I do not fit between
envelope folds
and crisp little notes,
crying at all the indecisiveness
of my worn edges.
I do not fit between
blue skies that mean nothing,
and a white hot sun
burning holes in it,
overexposing this bleached
and silent landscape.
I do not fit between
tightly packed cubicles
and hungry eyes.
My body moves about
with marionette precision
as the mind screams
with contempt
cool and sharp as glass,
white hot and fleeting,
lustfully arcing
into a shadow of identity.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
I know he's going insane
Inside that head of his
And I don't mean insane
With excitement...
Just downright ill
He tries to play it off
Be the cool guy
Wear his mask
And never let anyone see him unprotected
But I do the exact same thing...
If he would just give me a chance...
It's lovely
But I abhor it
It's rather ugly as well
Our minds are like prison walls
Bricks overlayed repetitively
As far as our eyes can see
Towering above us
I don't want to be the
Sledgehammer
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 8:42 AM UTC