"repugnance" poems
The day I lost my Angel,
I traded my love in for something of repugnance,
And I by no means even put up a struggle
I never even spoke, Not even showing a single expression.
I just raised my arms towering to the sky above
I just gave up
I ceased to distinguish who I was.
I became nothing, a soul I hadnt ever met or knew.
I had loved you, A feeling that you out grew.
A love I never knew.
I never once considered the repercussions of my emotions
Or my thoughts.
It’s strange how a single ripple in the sea
Can work to transform everyone and everything it comes in contact with.
Never leaving any inclination of its presence
Or its effect apon the vision that is cast into the waters of prospect.
Now I have nobody left,
No one and nothing at all.
Nothing in my heart or in my soul.
The graceful love I showed you.
But who am I to say.
I am just a guy at heaven’s gate
With broken wings.
Hoping that today is the day I may get in.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
Senses smothered in filth,
wails in repugnance,
isolated from immoral.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
And I did it once again.
Skin picked and shaven,
Cakey frosted ivory,
Faceless, nameless,
Plasticity contusion.
Littered in the detailed fractures of a swelling stem,
Those skeletal twigs of intangible incestual wings,
splintered in stacks underneath his bed.
Apocalyptic comfort found in the veins of what remains...
Pineal shame,
Puny white me,
Post-karmic, futuristic-retrospective cosmic plan, slowly creeps towards me and offers its long inflaming hand.
Cricket twitch, echoes in the distant introspective glitch of my momentary intuition.
A bitter drip on tongue descends,
Tunneled in an unwanted exploration.
That sour pitched cacophony uncomfortably sung,
Through the ghastly cold touch of a righteous cockroached thumb.
Repugnance,
Spreading the stain of an untouched soul,
Quicksand, morphing me into dust.
Devouring the white and into the red I rust.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
A spiteful taste of malice
Slithers across my tongue
Secrecy spoke in volumes
Before the words begun
This sensation it saunters
Into solar vacuity
Perpetrating sheer, faugh
Acts of congruency
In vain contempt I wallow
In the pillars of infamy
Whilst faint my ears waltz
To vindictive symphonies
Prolonged my strife be by humanity
Whilst I attempt to appease
As they flaunt their existence
To miscellaneous degrees
The English language resembles
Clouds of hyperbolic fallacies
In light of this hapless universe
They share an index of analogies
From behind cracked windowpanes
I peer at all that is inane
With repugnance I am slain
As I wince with disdain
I scarf reality in intervals
Reaping jagged grains of salt
Though helpless I am left
Pessimistic by default
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
The delicacy of the mind.
Strong impressions.
Vivid images.
Of past regressions.
Benevolent enemies,
Are attentively concluded.
Amidst their repugnance.
Intellect becomes secluded.
Paths of judgement.
Easily twist to falter.
Register atonement.
Evils become softer.
Conveyed assurance,
False sense of civility.
Sober thoughts, drunken words.
Lead to tolerable tranquility.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
Hans was outside himself. Perched on the edge of a daydream, he looked below, distantly aware of his bustling dinner table. How casually they live, Hans thought; with what feigned clarity they can connect and understand. There were his brothers and sisters; his aunts, uncles, cousins and ah—there was his father. Look at him personifying repugnance, locks of hair falling clumsily on his tattered shirt. Look at him! (Hans could yell only in silence.) Look there and see him cloyingly preparing his knife to hunt, to tear, to slice yet another hunk of meat for his own gluttony. With what excitement—what vivid, forbidden ecstasy Hans would take his father’s knife and turn the hunter into the hunted.
Somewhere in the cluttered abyss there was a sound followed by a warming light. Hans was entranced. And again, a gentle thunder followed by a thread of heat connecting for a moment earth and sky, father, family, and son.
It was goodness and caring, it was a mother’s voice. It was this graceful fluttering in the medium of time that awoke a primitive yearning in Hans, grabbed his throat and stared him lustily in the eyes. What could it be? Hans wondered aloud, what could it be that she desires, for he already knew that he had to be the one to deliver any object she longed for, to slay any beast that tormented her—it had to be him, to be Hans, to be her son.
Please, she said; can someone please pour me a glass of water. Oh how Hans was enraged to find that this whim had not been made solely of a son. It was his right to quench his mother’s thirst; it was his place within the natural order to satisfy her needs. What cruelty and ice! Hans said, but also felt; and in an instant returned to himself below, tumbling violently from the high canopy of his trance to the sight of his father’s filthy hand reaching for the water jug.
In base impulse, Hans jabbed at the jug, forcibly pushing aside the carnal hand. Upon contact, Hans felt an overwhelming calm, an absolute peace. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. At once he was joyous, he was spent; he was adrenalized and gloriously dominant. He would be the one to tend to the maternal flower, supplying water for a thirst that he prayed would always be there.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
"...from dust thou art..."
It was one peaceful evening we were having,
ruined by a message; distasteful and disturbing,
a misunderstanding? no, never had been..
.but it had always been the easy way out...
it was an overflow of misunderstood courage...
someone shouldn't have had the face,
but really had the chutzpah to reach out...
one that stood up to the last moment
to gird, to break, to wreck.....and won...
to be...to feel they belong,
this, could be allowed no longer...
this must...has got to stop...
here comes the CLOAK of non-acceptance,
it quickly spreads overhead,
but repugnance PERFORATES!
to be duped anew,
ah, brings back to life old hatred,
for those who think they know better,
but never again, to swim in bad blood...
feelings to be repeatedly exploited,
this, can no longer be allowed....
this...has got to stop...
ashes that were hidden,
ashes that were forbidden,
ashes i didn't feel like seeing
an urn of ashes i firmly refused to hold,
ashes i firmly refused to be anywhere near me.
and now, they suddenly ask,
where to take the forsaken urn?
they can just pollute the river
let the ashes flow with the current...
or, be indifferently blown by the wind
atop a mountain...
for God's sake, why not just buy a vault for the urn?
give the ashes the much-needed peace it longed for..
and let those who were once denied and deprived,
have their own share of much needed peace...
ashes may be carried away
by the sea or the wind---
but there's only one known place:
to the ground we all go,
cremated or otherwise...
so, why fuss on where the ashes should go?
"From dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return." *
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Biblical quote, from Genesis 3:19'
"Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return."
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
The question of dignity unanswered in your head,
So many words you wished had gone unsaid.
Nothing to lose in the battle of your mind,
All you had, is left behind.
Superficial smiles through the eyes of stone,
Loneliness, through the depth of the night, it cries alone.
Smiles again to greet the light,
Time isn't a relation to the fight.
It screams in your head- intolerable;
The shattering of the glass- unbreakable.
Dreams of submission, a misery untold.
Repugnance to tears, your smile unfolds.
A painted picture of a lonely cry,
The solitude of the moment, a peaceful lullaby.
An apparent rise, the deceitful mirage,
The bleeding face of Karma, slowly shows its victorious face-cards.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 6:04 AM UTC
Hatred in a misinterpretation of what
people think I linger in. I have no aversion
to this thought process, I just choose what
I know is true.
That understanding of facts where those who
delve to regurgitate inconsistences upon myself.
Why do you wish to ascend your misgivings on
me when like a viper all that is bitten upon is untruths.
Repugnance on a belief where I have non, free thought
facts and realistic virtues are what my life is based upon.
But you spite me as I am not held back I reject your
inaccuracies that have taken over a cognitive thought.
Deities are like clothes so many have been and then
like fickle thought, kicked to the curb for the
newest trendiest misgivings of whom to blame for
what we have subdued on ourselves no other to blame.
*"I have objections to inaccurate speculation
where truth just doesn't seem to connect on thought,*
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
'The biggest problem with communication is that we don’t listen to understand, we listen to respond.'
You trace my bottomless eyes to the pit of my stomach
You stare at the tip of my tongue,
With that sordid tang on it;
Reassure me now,
I am not the cause of it.
Taste, but not too late
The stuff of which
I am made.
Never think
I would clean the bottom
Piety of your sink
Would you hear me?
Muffled in a crowd?
Where my delusions
Of your confusions
Are shrouded
I smell repugnance
And make nothing of it
O the fancies of tongues
Bowed, I make nothing of it
In the crowd I hear your sound
I make nothing of it
My rejoinder blaring loud
You make nothing of it
The boil of the grey water
Murky glasses unclean -
Silent unorderly
I make a run for it.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
My words fail
Futile tears fell
Nothing to feel
You let me go
Now what I see in you
Smile that mocks me
Humour to torment me
Punches of repugnance
Your eyes carry it all
Pain of time with me
My weight lowered you
I couldn't see now
What I use to
Hidden in the layers
My words unfolding
With your touch
This time it is over
Numbness crept in
Nothing to hear
Nothing to say
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Oblivion
A pleasure
A bliss
An acedia
Remembrance is a pain
Despise hurts
Offensive repugnance
Oblivion
A blessing
A sovereignty
An ******
To let mind dwell away
The Earth, carved with misery and desolation
Oblivion
A labyrinth of tranquility
A quest for placidity
A warfare out of blue
A cure of the old wounds
But not to neglect your mortal shield
As oblivion is addictive
You'll crave for soft darkness
As you embark on a journey to Lethe
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
It seems that no matter what I do,
Nobody seems to see me through.
And yet I am still so far,
Far away from what I am trying to reach.
Fearing that I would lose everything,
Existing in my own eyes as not being worthy enough.
Can you not see that I hurt?
Too late for your sympathy...
I thought I had grown weak.
Over and over I couldn't see,
Never realizing what happened to me.
I am a stronger person now!
Never give up!
Always do it your way.
Forget what they think,
For they were only try to bring you down!
Everything that you worked for,
Came from your diligence and determination.
Time will tell you once said,
It's finally time to shine!
Only you can make a difference.
Never look back at the past.... It's history now <3
Thank you for reading my 2 sided story.
Inaffection -
A word I made up. The definition of inaffection is the opposite of affection.
Definition: A feeling of disliking or hatred.
Synonyms: aversion, hate, loathing, abhorrence, pet hate, bete noir, displeasure, disinclination, distaste, disgust, repugnance, antipathy, animosity
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
Resentment devours
The essence emptied now hollow
Till there's only a shell.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with ***** sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
Winter blasts,shrieking as pierced crystal in moonlight,
her figure trembles by the brinks edge.
Striking the center of her mind was a lost knight,
grabbing her sobs with tears frozen midcheek, before free falling from the ledge.
Spring, she wished to forget, when maid and man met,
stolen glances,verbal advances, a skins breach of indecency.
A single solitary evening was set, a tryst between Lachlan and Lizbet,
a tangled two caught in treasonous secrecy.
Blistering and bold, the summer, unforgiving,
imprisoned Lizbets' waist increases.
Lachlans' fate--no longer with the living,
a Lord may punish adultery as he pleases.
Fall, where all surrender to die,
a babe forced out silent, the demise of labors hope.
Barely clad the woman lingered, as did her lie,
the sentence one of repugnance and a length of hanging rope.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
I loathe him.
I like the sound of that one.
Loathe. It stretches out the tongue and draws the lips together.
Loathe. Webster's says that it expresses utter disgust and intolerance.
Execrate. I execrate him and all he stands for.
"to declare to be evil or detestable"
Sounds ****** just like him.
I abhor him.
Abhor--to regard with extreme repugnance.
Abhor has that hard air sound in its middle like the sound made when
preparing to spit.
Yes. That works.
Except he's not worth spit.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
i
Confectionery amour', quiet peaceful girl, flower haired gem
Whilst we maketh love to the old spinning record, eyes content;
The moon to leadeth ourn feet, bathed in chocolate fountain,
We prance as freely Galloper's, thither the desert, cool mountain
ii
I'll meeteth thee at the playground, inked in ourn red blotch,
No ticking tumultuous hand, to ruin ourn plan's, none to watch;
A private invitation, a rosey petal to surrender thine oath and vow, a seeded rightful city, conversation open and aroused
iii
Charlatan's to be naysayer's, exactly as the rest hath becometh,
Ourn cloak's to be as spiritual coat's, dashing in none repugnance
The waterside to be ourn resting residence, the pasture plain's to awaken ourn brain's, as we shalt be marksmen of lass and lad.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
have you ever felt a home in your bones?
safety in the way it cushions the weight of your moaning head
upon falling at it's thresholds
you want to know what tender feelings
you hold in safe places
but they
never question the way your severed vessel
still toes the shoreline,
roaming the foam licking at the crests
of crescent moons left in the remnants of crab shells
pressed into particle upon particle of scruples
unspoken in the weeks that forgot you
they rush ahead
and you stand stock stuck, still mustering
the guts of every animal they left on the beach
in the road, and you too leave them
for fear of that lethal touch
mistaking broken shards of beer bottles
for sea glass, some days you tried to remember
and forgot
they are savages
the agile hunger pains
gnaw at the bandages
but you still love, in nausea,
ad naseam, you study them, reverential
try to reference their satiation with fondness
still sunken in repugnance for your own likeness
you collect them like passengers
pieces of you and worlds unto their own kind
he says you are two of a kind
you think not, because he is one
each thrown to the riverbed below
becoming rocks filling up the moat
cranking down the drawbridge
over a river filled with sea glass
the true form of whom you have settled with
knowing you may never know
and in forgiveness you live with
the sickness of knowing nothing
and the sentience of understanding everything
and when you stand by the water
they tell you that your eyes have a brilliant glow
and you let them find you stunning
in a memory upon a time ago
you conceal yourself in the
minds of many
while the solecism in his praise
still rings heavy in your throat
two thousand
nine hundred
and sixty eight
miles away
from home
no,
i don't feel beautiful
but i feel dangerously effective
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
Late mornings or early nights
Internal struggles an eternal fight gripe when ever cradling life
A gift endowed upon is heavy
Handed stranded with opinions
The pen becomes a machete
Instead of jotting
turns paper into confetti
spilling my blood
on looken like spaghetti
expedient measures
the recipe warrants a recipient
of a John beard
ingredients inter-whine
you could smell it in the air
master sommelier
An acquired taste took years
1 meal serves plenty
Being great takes time
It stole many!!!
it stole minds!!!
So many!!!
I gave it my all I'm so empty
Tapped reserves
what my soul lent me
If I was trying to impress you
Would you then befriend me?
If you was impressed?
Doubt it
So I Feel alone when its crowded
When I'm alone I'm crowded
With these thoughts surrounding
Hounded whicha what way
There's a certain price
you pay
for talent
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
All that was seen was the repugnance
That glazed eyes in fearful perception.
As its flesh divided with each scream it released,
But the beast was only generated
Of misunderstood beauty.
"His story is such,
"My mother often said I was beautiful,
"My horns the beauty of nights hidden wonders,
"Be kind unto other misunderstandings,
"I was only five when the flood happened,
"When pink fleshy things landed upon ancient shores,
Mother told me of their coming; we were gentle folk
But they never heeded our response, in frightful
Horror they took Altars life. Burned him in
Thoughtless fear of misunderstood word.
Abomination
Bane
Beasts
Is what they called us. We learned fast as
We were of longer years. Centuries were
Are play ground, but we all birthed once in
Red moons fall. One was the sibling of most births.
"Pink rats, we nicknamed these things on wood,
That floated on our home and breed uncontrolled.
"The flood it was called,
I screamed as flesh stretched, as teeth gnawed
Tears burned on my cheeks as
She lay before my eyes.
Mother
"Mother,
"Mummy,
Was the last words I spoke of her.
No warning the pink skins had gathered
In their fear of our beauty, they all
Looked the same.
"I hate you things,
"Where we see beauty in all things,
"Songs older than your skins were sung,
"Now are stories die with each extinguished word,
Time in their definition had past, but in ours only
A generation if we can call what is left.
We called on our gods but we were unheard.
"I cried myself to sleep in the younger years,
"I now scream at the moons light,
"Mother of nights illumination,
Our gentle persuasion was our failing,
But no more. We took many, didn't discriminate
Of age, we took many to the falling,
To the resting of a souls keep.
But like rats they flourished in our absence.
"We are beasts,
"We have become what was seen,
"In their immature eyes,
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
My mother said these words moments before her
Passing
Falling
Death
Was what happened before my youthful eyes.
"I wish you saw the man I had become,
"Horns bled onyx light,
But now most of the time I stain them
In crimson breath,
I no longer scream.
I leave that to the rats satisfied upon my
Serrated endings,
Horns nourished in blood.
"I was beautiful once,
But now that is gone there is only anger
For those of few years birthed.
I will carve stories into their memoires,
Of the beast that hunted them
To the end of their breath.
I bled each on her mother earth, and she drank.
I am still here in the hidden places,
A legend in word.
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
"I still see some beauty in the world,
I still watch you, heed my words.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
He halted..
Snuffing the air, he turned tail and galloped off.
Still,
Without much delay,
We gallantly dragged our efforts; shooting at the poor beast in hot pursuit
I was unwilling in this sport.
In my heart of hearts I hoped instead we might manage to tame him.
This Mighty Majestic Beast of Burden was too rare to see Death.
But once our chase had been executed the noose in our hands drew tight,
Ensnaring the monster in our trap as we had him.
We had him cornered.
The Beast was upon the ground-doomed.
The animal was at all our mercy.
I felt some repugnance at paining the animal-but those were the orders.
This was a case of necessity-this was **** or be killed.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
The palindrome falls on shadowed riots,
clamoured mediocrity
and fever of falsified truths-
hyper-normalised until we’re writhing
in animatronic snake oil.
What’s worse, the hysteria or the disease?
Over-indulge the fascists
kiss their fists as they flail in cognitive dissonance-
white knuckles dragging to the rhythm of another media blag.
Patriotism cradles their fear and wraps it in red, white, and blue;
a stifled tricolour vision,
bathed in sanctified blood-clotted volition.
They’ll never let them come clean
they need their repugnance,
and inability to see that hope is an option
but the disparity is always just a news broadcast away.
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 3:01 AM UTC