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Natalie R Jun 2014
Sudden
Abrupt
Unexpected
These words describe a sensation
A sensation that fashions the soul
Molding, sculpting
The person I am today

Hyperventilation
Nausea
A sudden rush
Adrenalin
Slamming doors
Crowded, congested
Populously packed into a box
Air tight

Repetitiveness is a quality this one sensation possesses
Repeating
Over and over
Repeating

Fearing it
Fearing it's repetitiveness
Repeating all over again
Preventing me
From opportunities
Simple, basic, opportunities
While I'm still stuck
In the box
That populously packed box
All alone

Shouting
Till my larynx  
Rip and tears
But I'm left
Abandoned
With no response

This sensation
The panic
Has no end
Arlene Corwin Feb 2017
Boredom #2

I’ve never seen so many synonyms for one small noun,
Blocking maturation and enjoy-dom:
Boredom.
“Weariness, ennui: frustration;
Restlessness, dissatisfaction, unconcern: frustration;
Lethargy, lassitude, flatness and frustration;
Dreariness, repetitiveness, apathy: frustration;
Tedium, monotony, dullness. yes, frustration.”

Can it be overcome, this boredom?
No more war - the boredom won,
Exchanged for something more like fun?
It can.

A friend who, when we speak, says,
“It’s a part of nature…has no answer...”
Reasoning fallacious,
She is wrong as wrong can be
And her reasoning a fallacy.

Awake at night: hormones, full moons;
The glut of light: electric gadgets and devices,
Radios that play a song too strong, too long..

A trick I’ve learned that’s brought results;
A knack, a shortcut worth consulting
Is to train the brain to focus on/in/with the brain;
Travel round in, sense and feel…
Make it real – as if you really feel
The part you aim at, frame then tame.

In seconds you’ve an object that’s becomes a subject.
Boredom fled, you freed,
You and your mood well pleased, released
And taken places least expected,
Un-objected to by you,
The burden boredom’s through.
And doomed!

Boredom 11.24.2016/ #2 revised 2..16.2017
Revelations Big & Small; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.there always comes a threshold of tedium, esp.around this time, when two sides are at each others' throats... you can't escape it, both sides are at each others' sides... you're either collateral, or the, "supposedly", dumb spectator... you're in it no matter what, but the point being: there's no winning or losing invoked, or involved... but after a while: the stale quality of the drama, the persistent repetitiveness of the content become - so ******* dry... you give off a whiff of a prune mentality worthy of an atypical English soap operatic manoeuvring... basic said to basic: i'm just tired of one side telling lies, but i'm also tired of the other side exposing the said lies... i'm tired of both.... it's pretty much me quintessentially, scratching my itching genital region whenever i hear one side and the other, attacking each other... scratching my itchy genitals is more entertaining than wartching these sides argue for the same ******-momentum: money! i'm starting to see: neither side having the high-ground... it's simply tiresome... and, as a message to content creators vs. legacy media outlets.. as a content ingesting mechanism of an individual worth: sorry... no... by now i can't tell the difference... what was once a dichotomy, has become a dualism... click-bait... i figured: i can't be expected to fathom a bias, either side... as far as i know... the alt.-media could be, just as well, covert mechanisms of the same paradigm of spewed opinion... who the **** is to say that these unique, supposedly "unique" youtubers are not subcontractors of the major media contracting apparatus? i realized there's a need to stop buying revenue, primarily based on the exfoliation of the exploitation of drama... i'm not smart, but i am drunk, and attentive... big ******* difference! and i know what a threshold of tedium implies... i know when original content becomes exhaustive... it implies: the content is no-longer original.

you'd think you'd be able
to escape the playground
drama sequence. of events,
given how people
make money n youtube...
apparently
that's not the case...
  i think i'll need another
whiskey to write this "critique"...
like a whiff of
bothersome flies...
    like: but unlike:
a whiff of bothersome flies...
fusiliers to the common
"rain" of canon fire...
        so much drama!
too much, to be exact...
        a vanity ****,
with anything but
the without attempts at claiming:
fair...
   to make videos
in order to simply make excuses...
what a waste of time...
    take up a career in drinking,
then you'll see what
sort of stupid **** sober people
get up to!
and, these, are,
sober, people? yes?!
  my god...
        if they're sober,
and i'm drunk...
           maybe i should stop drinking
and join the funfair of
soberness!
   then again...
god i abhor the drama
of some pumpkin mope glass
akin to a chimney-sweep
in the form of:
pittance for a Cinderella...
  the jokes goes along the lines
of:
back east there's a Cabaret...
back in the west there's the comedic
monologue of a stand-up comic...
back east there's no soap-opera...
back in the west:
   there's no tele novella -
which only old women
appreciate...
but there's soap opera:
which, even the english
class teachers advised not to watch,
encompassing girls as young
as 15...

with the said advice...
   how wonderful to be made
esteemed of...
     i could never blog using
video...
the whole medium is plighted
with an implosion...
           it imploded by the "sentiment"
to simmer solipsism...
   it's way beyond an echo
chamber...
   it's a claustrophobia...
i could never make video content...
because as far as i know:
only lazy people watch videos...
while the diligent people
read anything at all...

    i've grown tired...
simply... tired...
              of the video content...
i also remember the glory days
when i'd listen to music
on youtube...
  and later buy the merchant's
allure of goods...
pristine physical artifacts...
via the uncensored suggestions...

i hate drama...
the faking, the blood-sports,
you name it...
    for a while i tuned in...
now i'm thinking
about coupling
last.fm with youtube.com...

   i never paid, and i was also
never paid...
my concerns are not the concerns
of the creator throng...
    tired?
is tired the most simple word
to bind to an excuse?
no...
              i hate imploding
drama;
that gets me...
              
no wonder i write:
  it's overtly selective within the domain
of the regards to who actually
digests the content...
      video my lazy...
     video my lazy...
          writing has an imbedded
censorship,
that is a pseudo-censorship...
     thankfully more
women read, than the men that talk.
Amanda Blomquist Jan 2013
I'm afraid to slow down, as if loss of repetitiveness allows for sediments.

Mind races, paces.
         Over works its self in the wake of new faces.

I'm begging for acceptance to follow this direction.
                    Harvesting all this love, gaining gems of affection

Scarred and torn my flesh is my own,
                                                       I'm grown.

Up, I climb further into danger's soothing catacombs.

               The shells of un-fulfillment shed with precision.
I'm dreaming of blackouts with a blurred vision.
                                                            Stee­ping tea of poor decisions.

Wasted, wasting, weightless.

Repetitive, sediments, settling into broken dreams.
             Filling the corners of my mind, spilling hope,
                                                           ­        Tethering seams.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
there are always two ways of saying things,
one way of saying things is
to read them once, file them in the unconscious
cabinet and ~wait for the results
working their ways in your thought
appropriating the said things -
i found i can only reread / skim-read only
one book in my library - because i spent
a glorious summer reading it,
in a communist apartment block,
and i never sought to invest in creating grime
post-rap given there was no English
suburbia to work against -
one book, out of a hundred i could ever
reread in leisure while taking a ****,
now that's an achievement to be honest,
i dare you to find two books of such calibre -
**** the prayer mat in the mosque -
and repeat, re re repeat -
and **** arching over your shadow in
the confession booth -
so that's one way of reading: read it once,
discard it, become an artist-journalist:
because there's always tomorrow -
**** acronym a.s.a.p. - ah, tautology of close
proximity - or so it might appear to be so -
and the boys juggling barbarism with
cut off testicles, one's spherical, the other's
oval - and ****** had only one...
the other way of saying things? a fishnet -
a safety-net - you can reread the already read
things and don't mind rereading -
to be honest, true art is of the former kind,
you read it, engage with it only once
and then leave it aside... brush it under the carpet...
the differential adjective association of nouns
is hidden within art and culture -
                arty will not do, farts won't do either,
but that's what is appears to be:
     culture likes to be associated with numbers
and revving inputs -
                                art's here a second,
and gone the next -
                                   culture is what keeps
the busy parents ticking and timing slow-mo -
the Jezebel of all yesterdays! it has to be pop -
hardly a minded canary song trickle in
modern-day aliens coming from the Amazon
without caveman theories...
yep, ****-naked all along throughout the Enlightenment -
they call it a plateau and ha ha,
the Europeans call it an insult and an anthropological
omission that would make Neil Armstrong
take up a bicycle and race the necessary need
to involve chemists in more than just shampoo and
toothpaste.. given the adverts...
                                           cos when **** goes dope,
you got to dope 'em, universally.
                  Belgium and the waffle -
duo - waffle - or blah blah, i.e. unnecessary talk,
usually political - can you imagine talking so much
in order to simply say: you must be joking,
no we won't, are you mad?, it was all supposed to be giggles.
i can't.
there are two ways of saying things:
a. if you reread me, you're kinda stupid,
    meaning you have the same repetitive dream
    over a 20 year period....
    i don't reread what i write,
    art isn't about rereading, if the message
    doesn't plummet into the unconscious you'll succumb
    to the second way of saying things, i.e.
b. for entertainment purposes,
    meaning repetition is the crucible, the pivot,
    a bit like dictates in the school system...
    we're actually taught repetitiveness -
    we are taught repetitiveness in order to pass
    an erosion of memory exams, like a toothache -
    we are taught to memorise *******
    in order to be later investments in Alzheimer's -
    no personal memory = no person of
   suggested personality acquisition -
   the English don't like verbiage -
                  but how can you even claim intellect
without motivational thinking that verbiage
is disguised as, huh?
paradoxically the stress on individuals -
the west never endangers itself with individuals
in established systems... sure, i should have
dropped-out of university and became the rottweiler
billy the kid -
                            i should have... but i wanted
to see the end results...
                  so b.
                            or the unnecessary need to repeat
art - as in art ought never succumb to the age of
mechanical reproduction (Benjamin) -
once ought to do it, like losing your virginity -
or the first time you swam 25 metres of a swimming bool,
or rode a bike... to exclude all sense of nostalgia
or eavesdropping on bogus maxims three generations
from now... the idea that words do not translate
into words: when one artistic output doesn't inspire
anything but practical activity, given art being
pure and therefore impractical activity -
but don't blame the artist for succumbing to such a fate,
it's not a fury - it just means the people the artist
encountered became insurmountably obstacle prone
representative: where a mother could have been,
a jealous murdering ***** stood,
where a man of suitable physical endurance could
have been, a semi-******* stood.
stick to point (a.), never fall for the trap of point (b.),
art is required more as a very elitist vector factory,
than H. Ford could think the wheel represented,
e.g.? well, examples always give adequate summaries
to arguments: Bloodhound Gang's the bad touch...
no, nothing in particular, i preferred the omission
that's akin to argument (a.) rather than argument (b.),
the pink floyd spoof with the lyrics:
        all in all, you're just another **** with no *****.
point made - *Right turn Clyde.
Gulishta Jul 2018
The idealisation of the far-fetched reality ,
Doesn't make it right.
The happiness coming from someone else's pain,
Doesn't make you thrive.
The insensebility of taking wrong decisions,
Doesn't make you look cute, just cruel and naive.
The passing on of the confusion,
Shows your incapability of commitment or in general Life.
The repetitiveness of a command,
Doesn't make people oblige.
It's a simple game...
A game of what's wrong and what's right!.
Of seeing things you ignored ,
Being a self-centred blind.
It's an opportunity to open yourself up,
For the things you've done to others,
and putting yourself in their shoes...
And.....REALISE.
Matt Mar 2016
I move kind of slow
And I'm not sure why
I do not know

Perhaps it is
The repetitiveness
Of this absurd show

Nowhere to rush
Nowhere to go

There was
A woman
At the gym

So strong and ****
Who deadlifts
Almost as twice as me

Kind and compassionate
What could be wrong
About breastfeeding
From her

All day long
Reece Nov 2013
Through peach coloured faded blinds, you watch him type on ashen keyboards
Low music playing, he used to cut her hair, she was breathing
Words from a soul, or words from dictionaries faded as the blinds and walls and clothes on his back
A team of typists, all in a line (factory work and the repetitiveness of city living)
You notice the desk, cheap and flat-pack, worn markings exposition of veneer and wood
Did you spot the reference, or did it pass your eyes,
- are you a fan?
His derivative verse of Bukowski and the like is painful to eyes and corroding of the soul
Have you seen the bees flee?
Watch as the lights turn dead, and the oven burns red
I'm not sure if one could call it homely; his home
The way darkness arrives early each night above that house alone
and the way rabid foxes walk in large circles to avoid the shadow cast
You hear him cry at night
(and I feel ashamed at noticing you)

He sets himself alight, to feel something new
You watch from your couch and flip the channel

Are the old haunts getting older still,
by the night's final adieu, a wild dog scampers home
To lay beneath the old car with grass in the engine
and we both know the house is burning

The flashing lights in the street and the coked up vagrants dance rhythmically
Smoke contortions over the grassy morning dew
A girl with a vacant stare, from a bench afar, watches and flicks broken nails
Everything you are is nothing you want, still watching from the window
Pacing. Pacing.

(I am on the rooftop, and I saw it all.)
jc Oct 2015
as i walk through the empty hallways
i fix my gaze on the worn floor
each footstep is heavy
and drags across the hardwood
the movements have become involuntary
a product of repetitiveness
not passion
i cannot raise my eyes to the photographs hanging on the wall
these black and white remnants
of what seems to be a life of mine
lived so long ago
that I cannot recall the details

but I remember
I remember the girl
who grew up learning hatred
so ashamed of what had been given to her
and so afraid of a life untouched
I wanted so desperately to give her the world
but she destroyed my heart
and left it black and blue

and I remember
I remember the boy
with wild black hair and a voice like honey
who told me everything I thought I wanted to hear
who pulled me in so quickly
but I drew away with little pause
and so I left him
because I am just a girl and cannot give you the world

I remember the boy
who I watched settle for anything
and everything that crossed his path
wondering if I too
was just a commodity
if his plans of seeing me in a white dress
were fixated on the dress
or the soul wearing it
so he destroyed my heart
and left it black and blue

and I remember the girl
who loved everything too much
who looked at me with wonderstruck eyes
and convinced me that I could be so much more
but the skies are never clear for long
and as the dark clouds rolled in
I learned that she hated the rain
as I watched her run inside
to someone new
as I stood amidst the raging storm
while she destroyed my heart
and left it black and blue

and I remember
I still remember the boy
who looked me expecting nothing
except me
the smoke envelopes me
whistling my name
and I move in closer
closer to this warmth
this all consuming
all encompassing fire
but I am scared
I am so scared of the thought of burning out
or becoming engulfed
only to discover
that these flames are not what I want
so I run
I run far away
to safe
monotonous
empty "love"

and as I watched him fall in love under the autumn leaves
tending my scorched soul
dragging my feet along these empty hallways
realizing I destroyed my own heart
and I left it black and blue
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i realised soon enough, that with each new poem, i am abstracting myself, Kant would claim some transcendental (dentistry's epitome of detachment from the repetitiveness of the task ahead, surely a canvas worthy of perfecting the actions) method, a circumstance of an elevation ahead, a necessarily involved eventuality of an obstacle to obstruct Belgium, i.e. a plateau, a flatland... transcending doesn't necessarily invoke abstracting, by transcending you can imagine something akin to god - by abstracting you can only conspire to throw a curtain over your self - well, to put it in close proximity: transcending you invoke the necessity of god / abstracting you invoke the non-necessity of the self - by transcending you have increments, even if Newtonian (infinitesimal, calculus, Leibniz) and other measurements of change, but when it comes to abstracting you don't have a clear path toward a methodology, hence the poetic expression being adequate, a spontaneity; with each new poem i am abstracting, digging in a coal mine of nothing, revolutionising the big bang, indeed poetry's weakness is to suggest that on the Cartesian pivot, too much rests on the side of 'i am', in that poets claim high revenue by exploiting this side of the equation - to boot very little is given leverage on the 'i think' side of the juggling act... poets claim too much and think too little, but at least their claims have a standard, a standard that's invoked is having possession of a heart (the whirlpool) that gives each and every one of us a lost tractacus (tract, route, a dragging, the lost history, atomic history, atomist representation of history that's etymology - the origin of words - pre-history, onomatopoeias, the end; well... if you're going to belittle me with a ******* monkey, i might as well sing Ol' McDonald had a farm, e ah e ah oh) - oh right, you want a linear representation with clear use of conjunctions: the alternative of historical investigation, debating whether the treaty of Versailles constipated Weimar Germany to the extent of having world war two precipitate is investigated with hindsight / too late hunches - etymology is a type of history, the history of words, origins in spontaneity or onomatopoeia / mimic? good question... i don't know, and i will certainly not s  p  e  l  l it out for you, on your own... chop chop.

i really am abstracting myself, i'm not even bothered
by Kant's methodology of transcendental concerns,
for me abstraction is a poly-geometric invocation,
too many vectors, x, y, z's, pentagons, hexagons, whatever,
transcending to me is simply a parabola reduced to
a dy/dx - a straight line - forget Kant, he'd nodding off
after reading Hume (who ran stark naked in Edinburgh,
not necessarily true) -
what i came across, stylistically speaking:
i have the second volume of the Critique near me,
and *why i'm not a painter
by Frank O'Hara...
the pronoun usage... philosophers are performing this
juggling act with pronouns, like would be kings...
poets have stripped themselves to the nakedness of
the first person pronoun, philosophers in turn have
put this pronoun (i) in inverted commas (if you're
into existentialism and ****), but philosophers are
mimicking kings, for example when a mother of
a labourer constructing the palace of Versailles died
unfortunately by a falling brick Louis XIV didn't become
self-conscious, because he pounced back at the woman
with the words: 'is she addressing us?', it's
like this weird schizophrenic analogue, kings and
philosophers juggle pronouns, in that they usually write
within a realm of plurality, as many people, read any
philosophy book from the Enlightenment and you'll
enter a simulation of schizophrenia - they really do juggle
the pronouns, it's like they're instilled with fighting
the Socratic daemon who constantly poured honey liquor
into the grandpa's ear on a bench in Athens -
i mean, i could throw in an extract from the Critique
to prove my point, but i'll be lazy and let you do
all the legwork, of going into a library and finding
the book in question, and the example as stated...
if you're lucky enough to have a library that actually
possesses such heretical works against the status quo.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
I. nope.



II.
long-windedness verbosity
diffuseness prolixity
wordiness rambli­ng
circuity discursiveness
redundancy tautology
tediousness verbi­age
verboseness length
longevity permanence
garrulity windiness
v­olubility circumlocution
expansiveness babbling
periphrasis gushi­ng
blathering protractedness
waffling lengthiness
iteration repet­ition
prating prattling
jabbering digressiveness
dreariness tediu­m
deadliness wandering
repetitiousness repetitiveness
pleonasm co­nvolution
logorrhoea boringness
maundering superfluity
duplicatio­n tiresomeness
monotony reiteration
gabbiness informality
mouthin­ess diffusion
logorrhea wordage
blah-blah dryness
dullness boredo­m
sameness loquaciousness
talkativeness loquacity
freeness orotun­dity
roundaboutness breadth
gobbledegook gassiness
wittering mult­iloquence
perissology big mouth
gift of the gab garrulousness
staleness tallness
ask and answered
Jimmy Solanki Feb 2014
Shivers pass through
Your every breath
Uncontrollable fear
Nothing is clear

Shivers pass through
Your every thought
You could run away
You could stop and stare

Slow-mo sickness
Know all the grains of sand
Repetitiveness
Destiny in your hand

Shivers pass through
Your every word
Soul-stained, taint
Incoherent and quaint
Nicole Jun 2015
- -
****, it happened again,
where I pull my feelings out,
and put them back again,
my feelings shouldn't matter,
but apparently they can still get shattered.
comfortable, uncomfortable, and comfortable again,
it keeps happening the same, is it a shame or just lame?

I got it stuck in my head that all I wanna do is go to bed
holey socks shocks my classy mother,
who asks if I still wanna be a mother
Repetitiveness runs through me,
Obsessiveness comes ruining this so-called "life"
that I've come to live,
Cheers, I made it through another year,
is it really that important?

It's like shittin' on all my dreams
whenever I open my eyes,
let the pendulum swing
till it tells everything
feels like a little kid today,
but I keep hatin' away
police make me nervous,
maybe a little curious,
it's nice outside,
*******,
I like when it's like ice outside
hide your scars like you hide your feelings,
no one ever sees them,
everybody thinks you're fine,
and no one knows you're lyin'
hatin' on your body,
hatin' on your insides,
don't try callin' me,
you won't make it better,
shoot me in the foot,
it would hurt lesser
than the feelings I keep feeling,
****, I don't even listen.
I say things won't help because I've already tried them,
don't say it, I'm stubborn
I'm not gonna let you help
because I'm just a ******,
****, this *****,
roll a blunt, and just give up.
{in treatment/recovery}
[second attempt at a rap]
Claire Walters Jul 2015
You are a photographer, your flash is extremely bright, people use to tell you to turn it off, but you wouldn't listen so they stopped speaking. You don't come around that much anymore so people either gather around in excitement or hide under there covers in fear. Your pictures are close to being rare.

You are the co-existent crowd, your clapping, roaring and cheering is often misleading. You are invisible but if you weren't I wonder what you would look like.

You are the muted out firecrackers your repetitiveness is calming over time. You make some people have the urge to run outside and  dance.
Alice Burns Jul 2013
As always, I'm laying on my bed
That is not yet used the way it is supposed to be
Instead of sleep, it supports my unsettling weight during nightly activities
And even though it appears unliving, I feel the need to apologize for my actions

Despite my repetitiveness
And insanity, that others would perceive uncontrollable
My motions, although unchanged and just as chaotic
Are now paired with a head more secure in its place

And I went out, a shock, isn't it?
The company of voices didn't win my attention completely tonight
Opposing their guidelines, I found others to interact with
And in returning, i was met with long faced whispers

Why the invisible frown, I would ask, if question would receive answer
But I know fully well that conversation in their dictionary is commenting or narration
And I know well the gist of their answer
From insults jealously thrown, in attempt to dim my replenished glow

They can't give me that happiness
Even worse, they can't possess it for themselves
So they try to distract me by provoking emotions, sadder in impact
Hoping that I disembark this roller coaster of pure delight

But tonight, as I said before
My head is secure, holding mind safe within
No tricks or reverse psychology can prevail
I'm enjoying the ride, and I'm not getting off.
A Person Feb 2015
These days are different,
don’t ask me how;
there’s only one way for you to understand what I mean.

Now things are changing, no longer simple but more complex yet all the same repetitiveness of the day before.
What changed might you ask, and personally I will tell you, EVERYTHING. It all happens in small amounts, the change, from new seasons to new haircuts, the little thing you don’t notice much. However there are a few times that the change is really noticeable, like when you move from place to place or when you wake up on a Saturday morning before everyone else and you simply lay there, the warm beams of sunlight shining on your face and you just think about how things are
and how they used to be.
That is when it hits you on the head like a ton of bricks, this change is dramatic, its huge and complex.
"But that’s ok" you say to yourself, change is good.
Or maybe just maybe it might not be.
There is no such thing as repetition
Set in stone necessity of self choice
What's here today in space around you
Wasn't same yesterday,
Leaves fall and our creations
If good ones
Are here to stay-
To fall back to enjoy whenever we want
Which in no way is repetitiveness
For instance
To fall asleep with these pajamas to wake back up to
Does not make my sleeping a waste because I wore those same pajamas
Just last eve,
repetitive repetition blissful bite
Patrick Kennon Jun 2011
Washing sand from cuts on my
feet
Wiping grains from the corners of my
eyes
A hundred stones, bouncing together
musically
Tossed back and forth by rushing salt water,
seaweed
I sit here in silence, waiting for the last
puff
Off a cheap cigarette, pulled from cellophane,
cheap wrapping
Adorning your arms with a ball point
pen
A human canvas, framed by smiling green
eyes
And the ocean crashes with tired
repetitiveness
While we are still unaware that we even
exist
Or that we will someday, maybe even today,
cease
Stefania S Feb 2018
it doesn’t seem that long ago that i was a young woman with a baby in my arms, little fists fitting neatly into my own, breath of my breast and an infectious smile that appeared early. of course to say it wasn’t long ago is a bit of a lie, as it’s been nearly eighteen years.

today, nearing my mid-forties and a very different person, i find myself in-between dimensions. time seems to have sped up and i am facing my own mortality as if it were a lover. i have fallen so many times in the years between my baby’s midnight cries and his approaching graduation that i’m not even quite sure if i’ll be walking there or crawling. but i do know i’ll make it, whether it’s under the light of a southern sky or from behind the cover of a darkened and eternally masked visage.

my journey from then and there to here and now has been bumpy. i’ve grown and shrunk, fit in and stood out, fell down and climbed over; basically i’ve turned myself around more times than a spinning top in the hands of a wild-eyed youngster. disappearing, that has been different, less climactic, quieter, more revealing, yet terribly isolating. my actual self, a shrinking figure in a mirror hung so long ago i can’t remember why it was even chosen, its shape too small for any person to do much mirroring. like the mirror, i can hardly recall who stands before it most mornings, my body, bones mostly with very little extra flesh to speak of harshly.

untouched, sacred, THIS body has only been seen by my healthcare provider. no man has seen me disrobe and i can only laugh at what i spent years trying to achieve through the repetitiveness of running finally realized at the hands of a long-term love affair with darkness. food, always the enemy, not so much anymore. i don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, eat only when i’m hungry, and refuse to deny myself the pleasure of ice cream because of extra skin hanging at my waist or thighs. those days have passed. the thoughts still exist, the what if’s: what if i get fat again, what if i can’t fit into my size 2 skinny jeans, what if i have to wear a real bra again? i try to push them away as often as possible but they lurk, triggers in the land of odd.

when i gave birth to my son i weighed almost 200 lbs. i’m only 5' tall. i was a round little thing with hardly any love for myself. today i weigh nearly half of that, have a healthy bmi and feel pretty good about my body. you’d think that would equate to happiness; wrong.

rather than stretch this out i’ll tie it up, neatly. the smaller i become the less there is of me to hate. shrinking away from everyone and everything, quickly initially, and then slowing down as the years have passed, i’ve found that if i can just squeeze into the tiniest of spaces i won’t hurt so much. there isn’t much of me left to lose and i’m quite cognizant of that, while also keenly aware of the abilities my tiny frame provides, like climbing trees, running at break-neck speed and disappearing in a flash.

eventually i’ll find the shape of my elderly aunts in that ******* mirror, but for now i’d rather grow invisible, tiny, forgotten.
Matt Oct 2015
You can stop knocking
On the door

Announcing what you made
For the **** dinner

I know there is food in the kitchen

I eat when I please

You are a nobody

To me you do not exist

I delete the holidays

I delete these obnoxious people

From my memory

Go watch the news

One who "exists"

And makes dinner.

Go plan tomorrow's dinner

You'll have all day to do it

While you watch the news

F** idiot

It's the repetitiveness of it

Go away

You are not welcome

As far as I am concerned

This room is a different home

Go away, go away

Away, away, away,

Stay away from me

Village idiot.

And I do not like

To be negative about people

But some get on my nerves

They do not change

They do not live

They simply exist

Truly sad.
I know this is a bit harsh-- But I have to live with a very repetitive and stupid person.
Esther L Krenzin Mar 2021
i’m staring at this blank page again
wondering what to write
when the words lock themselves away
and i am left with nothing but myself
how lonely that is
how e m p t y i am
my fingers twitch as if to reach
for something
my feet itch to run towards a better life
but every morning
with the rise of the sun
i don the same garb
walk the same walk
until i am drowning in the repetitiveness of it all
until i wonder why i’m even here
“there must be more to this life“
i think
and watch everyone move on without me
at a speed so great
i am coughing up dust
coughing up the lies i told myself
so that i could remain a shriveled thing
instead of swimming towards the light
but the light hurts
it blinds my eyes
and pulls sobs from little nooks and crannies
i thought were vacant

Esther L. Krenzin
Poetic T Aug 2016
What I wanted to, to what I became its the
question that has haunted my years in
proximity of my thoughts and kind.

My passion of what was above my
mind, where there was specks of
nothing filled with glimmers of light.

I lingered on this thought of where I
wanted my mind to stretch to the outer
reaches of what was beyond my perception.

My life was a hurricane and I was a petal
swaying in tormented jest.  I couldn't find
a star up above to end this constant anguish.

I only saw tears fall from above washing away
the thoughts of youthful jest. I could not see
what in youth was gradually washed out.

Now I an I shadow of my adolescent youth,
Now contained within a hollow shell.
I am drone like others that do the same steps.

I miss you innocent thoughts of youthful wanting
to be above my thoughts. I wanted to be in the
stars or at least be an astronomer of sights above.

But I languish in this time of repetitiveness.
adulthood has stolen my innocence of before,
I want to once again idyllically stare at the stars.
BLVNK Feb 2017
Theoretically speaking I'm constantly seeking for truth.

Waving white flags and truces even when whites are hanging nooses, buildings of blockades an aid for destruction mentally constructed to keep our eyes blind a constant excuse for freedom.

When sometimes I think freedoms a disease the way so many armed forces are forced over seas to siege a way with an extra arm to squeeze at enemies abroad for things unknown just to drop a nuke.

So let these visions be televised and in the future wise men become the eyes sequences in history repeating repetitiveness will seize but until then we live out America's Dream
Poetic T Apr 2017
I verse on the tracks of desolation, collecting the fares
of misinterpreted views. Distorted rails nearly derail
my motion onwards, the baggage of my life is strewn
in plain view.

A journey is only a fluctuation of tendencies,
Never knowing the repetitiveness of coincidental
meetings. I'm a hobo in a suit, trailing features of soiled
seats that's have memories of words spilt on them.

I lose myself in momentary views that like paper
trails flickering  show me different afflictions outside
a window of opportunity that lasts moments.
I'm in a can of sardines waiting for my release.
jeffrey robin Jan 2016
.



Lost

I ( Think! ) I

Do

I do marry you on the subway

From manhattan into Brooklyn   (!)

)(

When I was a kid I thought

YA KNOW

I THINK

If YA DONT MARRY A BAG LADY

YOU ARE  WASTING YOUR LIFE !

& I was so right !

)(

Gene diversity is very high in these

Sorts of unions

And the kids are so superior

Because of if

)(

)(

Lost

In the madness of conformity

We squander our precious consciousness

To repetitiveness

And sleepiness

//

Ah

Me and my babe !

Holding hands

With each other

And you too

My friend


.
KellzKitty Jan 2015
Everyday is the same
Same  people
Same fake laughs
Same fake smiles
Same conversations
Every single day
The stories never change
The thoughts never go away
I hate it here!
This place makes me want to die
I'm so frustrated and irritated that I'm going to break down and cry
Same arguments
Same clothes
Same faces
Same words
All the repetitiveness is getting to me
Is today yesterday?
Is today today?
Is today tomorrow?
I don't know and if I did it doesn't matter
Because today is the same as it was yesterday
Today is the same as it will be tomorrow
I need something new
I need to be happy
I need a new conversation
I need exciting.....
Emily Williams Jul 2018
You know when you stand at the edge of the water, feet in sand. Letting the water wash over your feet making you sink in the sand a little more each time. When we are little we make a game out of it. Running away from the waves as they try to catch you. But now we welcome it. Wanting the relaxing repetitiveness of it. Then walking further in. One step at a time. Apprehensive at first as it is so cold. Waves crashing higher than you want because you're scared. You keep going because eventually it becomes colder outside of the water than in. Finally you can't touch the bottom anymore and you have to decide if you want to keep swimming and explore the wonders of the ocean or go back to the shore where you know it is safe. You may not know what's beyond the horizon or under the surface of the water but you know there is more there than what meets the eye. Swimming further in you realize you are surrounded by water. Peacefully floating and letting the water guide you occasionally wash over you. Knowing wonders lay beneath you. Finding things you thought could never exist. Wanting to go deeper. Learning new beauties but you can only hold your breath for so long. Seeing somethings you can't unsee. Dark scary things that make you question if you should stay or go in another ocean again. It can be terrifying to find something that makes you question your love of the ocean and everything wonderful in it. I guess that is why we stay near shore. Never getting lost at sea.
del Jan 2018
i am a self conscious robot in a sleeping society
a single person against many
i realize my monotonous days are being spent as a waste
i realize my blatant apathy is taken as acceptance
to live in a world of grays and repetitiveness

if i pulled my heart out of my chest,
you would find nothing of worth
but if you pulled my brain out of my head,
flourishing ideas are sprouting
despite the hard soil that it grows in
they are planted in the basis of society
and continue to grow due to individual thought
not many refuse to parrot back the words of the past
and try to write the future

"respect your elders, they are wiser than you"
we have grown up on decades of
teaching children on how to be quiet
creative minds are silenced
yet i continue to go to school
and do the work expected

i realize all the faults
but what can one person do?
in a world filled with people accepting everything with careless ease,
i realize the themes between the lines
they are bullying us into submission
yet i am but a child
there is nothing i can do
Cory Bauer Mar 2020
No matter what I do today is just a tomorrow  away.
   To dwell on my past I cant let go so it's here in my head that I must stay.
It Feels like I'm in a constant state of repetitiveness stuck in the past.
  The thoughts of the future look so good from yesterday but they never last.
I must not be a coward , since to do so means I'm going to end the same as I begun
  I want to be free so I look around and in front of me is the answer so I start to run.
Sometimes the past is were I wish I could never leave stuck in a daze.
   As I  take lifes next turn it is the end that is lost in a never ending  maze.
So Today's choices quickly become yesterday's decisions .
   Will tomorrow ever seems to look like today's hopeful visions.
This sort of thing
is one of the rare kind
in a lifetime
That, meanwhile you're cruising
Along in the seemingly
more or less homogeneous
lethargic repetitiveness
Of day to day life,
kindly makes you go

What the ****
Where is all the sense that we're supposedly making ?
walk a circuit around perimeter of parking lot

Yours truly realized modus operandi
to kombat (mortal) lethargy
he strides rite around
resident parking lot area
usually at approximately
19:00 hours each day
casually bumbling and ambling
one lap after another
counting one hundred and one,
one hundred and two,
one hundred and three...
coordinated with deep breathing
to distract self from repetitiveness.

Modicum of exercise
also helps keeps at bay
mental anguish triggered
duress experienced
courtesy of property management
constituting: Zoftig, the warden
and maintenance man "Mister Clean"
once also known as "twinkle toes,"
back during hs high school heyday
whose invisible clutches

asphyxiate me and the missus
prompting us to search
senior low income apartment facilities,
spurring query regarding
wondering if any anonymous reader
might be able, eager, ready and willing
to hand over keys to main lodging
including carriage house,
or (in a manor of writing)
assign access rights to an excellent outlook.

Sense and sensibility concerning
the emotional fallout
brought about by sedentariness
(essentially affecting me to feel
glum, melancholy, and ruminative)
helped goad generic indigent solitary man
(practically self quarantined
his whole mucked up adult life)
hence not inconvenienced
when coronavirus COVID-19
wrought havoc and mayhem.

Just on the cusp of experiencing joie de vivre
the triumvirate of Crooks and Quade
figuratively swooped down
to announce re: inspection
of apartment unit B44
Tuesday June 29th, 11:00 am - 4:00 pm.

Thus series of unfortunate events
(linkedin with bull limey
Lemony Snicket bro)
got sidelined nsync with
contracting a minor bout
with deadly Amish Flu
symptoms found garden variety reasonable rhymer
bedridden feeling a little horse and buggy (ha),
incapacitated to craft signature poetry writing.

An honest to dog confession
regarding hiatus spewing forth
vociferous versatile vocabulary
mine words - worth their weight in gold
(told woofer I do not know), nevertheless
included perusing a gamut of reading material.

The passion to engross intellect
witnessed courtesy immersing
attention, concentration, excitation
gratification, intoxication;
knowledge prized more precious
than fine spun gold.

Likewise crafting (albeit painstakingly)
elusive notions that flit
to and fro hither and yon
(analogous to ping pong ball)
within parameters of
microscopically crenellated
gray matter
also constitutes fervent interest.

— The End —