"respiratory" poems
Scientists divide my body
into systems,
cardiovascular,
circulatory,
respiratory,
but when you are in my presence,
it all becomes nervous.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
Hands shake after intake
of brown and green.
Catch the breath
keep it till it leaves.
Pretend, through the muddle,
that this hasten heart beat
isn't bumping blood cells
filled with defeat,
that the O2 isn't poisoning
the alveoli that absorb it,
sending this brain, and all
it entails, straight to
hell.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
The world is in a dead awkward silence
everyone looked at the aggressive brutality and cruel violence
They wondered to themselves how did they get here
without even realising there were people pulling their strings like a masquerade puppeteer
Can you imagine a world without anything but just broken gravel?
Living in fear of just catching nothing but just the common cold rattle
Growing up to learn the destroyed world and be nothing but just to grow old..
Change the time of you which you live in now
technology just complicates our lives and our true knowledge
Before everything just becomes nothing but bitterness and displease
will it then maybe shock you? And come ten times worst as respiratory disease
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
I can’t catch my breath
as throat swells after smoke
you exhaled behind you;
you didn’t look back as euphoria hit.
I can’t catch my breath
as salty tears dilute my blood
and erythrocytes shrivel
leaving gas stranded in my lungs
after each grudging, shaky breath -
I can’t catch it,
it begs for freedom in endless sky
over the suffocating pressure inside my chest;
I can’t catch my breath,
I can’t catch my breath.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
the steady rise and
fall of your breath like the moon's
interstellar path
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:53 AM UTC
In,
Then out.
Give,
And take.
Void,
Then full.
It's all a rhythm,
It's all flow.
Why do I have,
so much trouble,
Though?
A star burns bright,
Brings things to life.
When gone,
And burnt away,
If no other star,
There be no day.
But in its death,
Its slow pass,
It erupts.
Everything,
Everywhich way,
Toward the star,
Will not stay.
And where it was,
Where the star did die,
There is nothing,
Just a hole left behind.
Void,
Then full.
Give,
And take.
In,
Then out.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
My body is tossed about by violent jolts that fling my unwilling and powerless self about,
a helpless prisoner within.
Even without breath my chest still contorted,
making the pain sting, poke, and **** with every up and down.
Of course,
I am afflicted with hiccups.
I put my small sufferings into poetic sequence in an unconscious attempt at being rid of them.
They're gone.
Going through the short poem,
Correcting little errors.
Up
Down
Jolt
Sting
****
They're back
Of course,
I am afflicted with hiccups.
Hiccups are *****
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
A
bone
slowly
woke
just
in
time
to
become
brok(en).
Once spoken,
there's no point
of lending an ear.
There'll be a violent
jerking of the wheel,
deceptive *** appeal,
and an unrequited (love).
Now, unwillingly, it's open.
The rhyme is deliberately late,
but it's not tardy enough to satiate
Swelling lungs-we're just getting started.
Both for respiratory and broken-hearted.
Here, we speak of energy-specifically kinetic
Because you can't live in love and good faith
with right hemisphere real, and left prosthetic.
AND THAT'S WHERE THIS BEAUTIFULLY KICKS IN.
Picking up faster and quicker and clearer
and headlights have never come nearer.
But I'll be somewhat content lying at rest.
While lively and enthusiastic is best,
unemployed potential is all I can be.
It's something to unwillingly see.
You'll watch the clean breaks
as the marrow escapes.
As I steadily gush
onto pavement
you'll see
how
idle
I
can
really
be.
As
I
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
We stand here both in pergatory.
My only failure will be my respiratory
You're my air
You don't even care
That without you
I gasp
I gulp
I yearn for oxygen
But then again without
I'm dead
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
I'm barefoot in 46 degrees and I must remember that my perception of things must not encapsulate how I truly perceive. Soldered commentary is bleak but is all I've left, all my years have given me and my years have been few.
To be constantly bombarded with the question, "what is it that I really want?" is fervently exhausting and consistently hypocritical and I'm a hack. The conclusion is always that I'm a hack without a win to present or a failure to fall back upon. As a hack, I've left myself with very few plans to alter or hungry mindsets to feed.
After glistening the only thing that remains is to burn out and the thought of extinguishing so prematurely provokes a physical falter and frequent respiratory failure.
Ask your brother if he lingers at times. Ask your sister if sometimes, she means what she says and she should always say no. Ask your friends why you should be anyone's friend and whether or not the chance to swing into hyperbolic criticism ever affects how they make their choices, hoof their steps.
Their answer should always be no and their input should always be invaluable.
Ask yourself if brain power should always be set to alter mind power and ask yourself is alteration is ever even possible. The answer should always be no.
The conclusion to draw should always be his. The choices you make, always expert and ground out by consistent respiratory failure. Ask yourself if you'll always be an animal and when will that stop. Ask yourself if time will determine whether or not this "thing" is worth doing or this "thing" is worth composing. Ask yourself why you're not the young girl who sings soul on the street, whose tremble sets off car alarms and inner requisitioning. The answer will never be the same.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
Rugged body hunches,
Impression of a humpback,
Spit blood more than saliva,
Straighten posture to reveal
Ghastly mold of ribcage,
Bones poke at the dermis,
Gasp, prickling oxygen,
Pierces respiratory system,
Flinch to agonizing pain
An hour of spasms at the most,
Wounds deemed trivial,
Famed hers walk around
To stitch the prized emblems
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Pay attention to the chill,
the chill is the most shivering fear of all.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the chill,
Gently it goes - the chill, the trembling, the unsteady.
A thawing, however hard it tries,
Will always be Melting.
Does the thawing make you shiver?
does it?
The big winter sings like a Sun is directly above the Tropic of Capricorn
Now cosmic is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the winter is mature.
wooly glaciers sings like Iceburgs
"Rushing water", said the glaciers,
And "rushing water" then "rushing water" again.
How happy is the frozen popsicle!
Does the popsicle make you shiver?
does it?
The freezing that's really crystals,
Above all others is the frost.
Does the frost make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Ice, Ice, every where,
Yet not a drop to draft.
How happy is the cold surface!
Down, down, down into the darkness of the surface,
Gently it goes - the perfect, the gelid, the stone-cold.
Pay attention to the floe,
the floe is the most Dence ice mass of all.
Floe, floe, every where,
Yet not a drop to drift.
The thawing is like a gentle voice,
it tends to cause significantly.
Does the thawing make you shiver?
does it?
The athletic game that's really zany,
Above all others is the hockey.
Pause to assist, like the hockey does.
It does assist, it does draft,
Should it also induct?
Why would you think the snowfall is gradual?
the snowfall is the most sudden downfall of all.
Pause to last, like the snowfall does.
It does last, it does accumulate,
Should it also range?
I saw the the antarctic installation of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the water.
I don't like the fact that it,
learned to reside before it knew how to flow.
You can reside, you can flow, but can you supply?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Pause to draft, like the Ice does.
Don't belive that the snowfall is small?
the snowfall is big beyond belief.
Never forget the braggy and large-scale snowfall.
Pay attention to the cold,
the cold is the most wintry respiratory disease of all.
Are you upset by how springlike it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the cold so frozen?
I saw the the little demoralize of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the chill.
Now small-scale is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the chill is trivial.
An iceman, however hard it tries,
Will always be cunning.
Are you upset by how adroit it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the iceman so attractive?
I saw the the Frozen excretion of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the water.
Never forget the sleety and unchangeable water.
Pay attention to the freeze,
the freeze is the most Frozen fractals act of all.
Does the freeze make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
they did kindly draft for me.
Do Ice make you shiver?
do they?
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
His dreams are told through the eyes of an honest liar
and those eyes are black like respiratory failure
and sleep paralysis, his passions are inflamed
in monochrome and cream his nights are longer
than evenings in August, the sheets cling like the arms
of a past love, and he feels as though he is drowning
in pools framed with lashes.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Sarin –
An organic molecule
Used for inorganic purposes
Showering civilians
Effectively icing their insides
Contorting the human form into forced frozen sculptures
Acting as if torture was an art of the highest caliber
An acquired taste reserved for society’s finest
And this was the Michelangelo masterpiece.
Atropine –
The organic antidote,
Shoot up the stimulant to hurdle your paralysis,
Relax the respiratory muscles caught in your throat,
Your eyes team with tears because you’re allowed to melt,
Your eyes team with tears out of profound shock,
Your eyes team with tears because humans forgot humanity.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
I am somewhat perplexed at the clash between neutrality and expectation, as we genuinely present our being on the field of open vulnerability. I seek to find synthesis in this very moment, between emotional thesis and antithesis. Oh, my literary companions of global interconnected and eternal being, I beseech you by the power of respiratory arrest: dare to surpass the line of expected mediocrity, where few will ever tread. I am hungry. Let us acknowledge that "authority" is a questionable truth and let us resonate with the awareness that truth is an infallible authority. The character of perceived vulnerability is steadfast in the face of assumed evidence.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
They told her
It was the unmentionable disease
Lung cancer
Soon she would cease
But she was only nineteen
Never smoked a day in her life
Hated the **** things
So as she lay
With a respiratory mask
Tears rolling down her cheeks
Dwelling on the past
Family surrounded her
But her dad was missing
He was outside with
What he couldn't live without
Inhaling the fumes he lit
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
you said you had needed time and space
as if I hadn't given you enough of that already
I had sensed that my love was suffocating you
so I eased up to let you breathe
I didn't want your respiratory system to collapse
because of my emotions
but how do you explain leaving me because
of the very thing you wanted
you said you didn't want a girlfriend anymore
and that was like a stake to my heart
because I had been much more than that
I had become apart of you
I was the one who opened the gateway to your soul
I was the one who ended your drought
and I let my ship sail into your harbor with no regrets
but I guess some ships were meant to sink
see I gave up and tossed my heart into the sea a long time ago
but this morning a piece of it washed up ashore
that's how I know there is still hope
so maybe we weren't right for each other then
maybe we'll meet when we're better for each other again
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
there are two ways to breathe.
one is through the splinters.
the carved out,
thickly bleeding
respiratory tract
receding.
a futile attempt to enjoy the air
blown over like
a house with
no foundation.
the other is to
close your eyes.
and hope
that the hurricane
does not
cut off oxygen.
because
nirvana
is not a choice.
it is an island
somewhere deep in the ocean
waiting to be discovered.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
It’s been a long day
I’m sitting in the recovery room, waiting for a late evening case to start
The PACU nurses tend to two patients at opposing sides of the room
Familiar cacophony of sounds – monitors softly speaking, informing the staff about their charges
Heartbeat, pulse oximeter timbre, quiet respiratory alarm
It’s my 7th case, I’m starting to fade
The sounds are relaxing, soothing.
All is well
Suddenly I hear the disconjugate beeps of the two heart monitors
Draw together, until
For just a few precious seconds
These two total strangers
Completely unaware of one another
Share a pulse – their hearts beating in perfect sync – the two sounds indistinguishable
A beautifully symmetrical moment, almost lost
In the next second, as if it hadn’t happened, their hearts diverge - once more strangers
one to one another
unaware of an incredibly intimate moment shared
Sitting there, waiting for the case
I imagine
An instant in the course of history
Where, for one fleeting breath,
Humanity’s rhythm converged
Billions of hearts in time, a nerve impulse propagated across the planet
before scattering to the winds
A potent event, possibly one of many that even
In our modern world, still remains in the mystical
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
*And what you'll find is, your highness
Can paint a picture that is vivid enough to cure blindness
- J. Cole, January 28th*
And because they have never before seen a naked soul,
they ask me
if I am being deliberately provocative
with my pen.
And then I paint.
So that they too can undress
that mental amnion that has cocooned them
since birth; which itself became still-born
as it was followed by an undying funeral
of parental expectations.
And then I paint.
So that they too can reclaim
that aborted clay and mould their burial
into gestation, and shatter
their amnion coffins
from the asphyxiating breath of non-existence
to the respiratory lust of Being.
And then I paint.
So that I too can remember
that I am they. A victim
********** into the darkness of lost light,
dreams deferred at birth;
who still focuses his pen on this canvas
to cure his own blindness, to see
and paint his naked soul before me,
which we then call Life.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
On opposite sides of a telephone line
Signals from satellites bounce between
The waves of silence that are plopped uneasily
Within our absent minded conversation
I breathe, hoping it is not too loud
A sigh, a release from this purgatory
But any microscopic sound or respiratory
Inspires him to question me
"What are you doing?" he asked halfheartedly
While I lay and watch my wall paint crack
As minutes tick by, sigh after sigh
Of not knowing which words to utter
So I break the silence finally
With a insincere and restless goodnight
Because this is how you end a fight
But I still hung on to silence until the line died
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
The wind howls to the craters of the moon, wondering if its lack of breath is another respiratory disease waiting to happen
As bodies crash into the ocean and casualties increase by every bottled up sensibility
The cracks of cardboard doors fill up the voids of emptiness,
Emptiness of washed up filth and five days worth of street toxic meant for the guts too vacant to feel
Their doors quiver to every knock and exhale, families too hungry, awaiting to devour assurance of safety
Just this once, they are asking for a little more
Than numbered days of handfuls of rice and rock salt, enough to feed the mouths of eight
Teeth clicking to every bite, bones clashing together to prolong the food not more than a mouthful
However this time the clicking doesn’t stop
It intensifies as street light poles plummet into windows and shards are washed away, seeping through soaked doors
They are told to leave these places without titles but this unnamed land is their entitlement and home
Their mother whose tongue is a symphony of lullabies remains silent, hoping for the storm to pass
Lips swollen from biting, she looks at her children with fear in her eyes, tears reflecting the shattered bulb that hangs by the kitchen ceiling
She links her arms to her children’s, grips their skin tightly hoping to warm their shivering exterior while whispering the words “they’ll come for us”
Time elapses and the water rises, their properties enveloped by the disease
Their house disappears along with it, in a downward current of pitch black and rotten forestry
What is left is a family of seven, arms linked and accompanied by the howling wind,
Slowly diminishing with its lack of breath, becoming a nationwide debris
n.j.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
In the silence between what I believed to be real and reality is where you sit
Nestled between hope and illusion, you are there.
Waiting patiently, hoping diligently, you are my own mirage
Sampling the fragrances of fancied flowers and waiting
Always waiting
Your toes dip in pools of uncertainty and you wonder why you are here
Purgatory and respiratory, I can't breathe in this space
This half way between heaven and hell
So right it can't be wrong
But am I really crazy to believe it is all a sham
This illusion of a closing is really an opening
If you stare at it long enough
And think at it hard enough
It might just open
And I used to try to squeeze myself through
Just before it was closed
Because I believed it wouldn't be opened again
Now all my bridges have been burned and there is no going back
Never going back
I feel like some action star, like Arnold Schwarzenegger
Walking away from the scene of an explosion
No looking back
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
Sometimes I forget what happened, but not completely, just as if I was in a haze. I squint to see through the mist of my recollections and in that moment I feel ten thousand things at once.
I catch myself saying to you in my head, feeling it too, I Love You D - - - - -, and I smile and bask in it for a moment, proudly, warmly. As soon as the words pass silently through my lips, I nearly remember.....
My chest tightens up and air can hardly enter and depart my respiratory system on their usual schedule. The piano falls, crashes, louder than silence itself. Steam escapes my eyelids as the pressure builds up all at once but not a tear passes through. Every nerve in my frozen body is screaming and retching in terror at the thought and I feel the need to run as a child would to his sympathetic mother, but there is nowhere to go, nobody to run to.
I am alone.
I am alone.
I repeat it a thousand times a second trying desperately to process how something impossible like this could have ever happened. The idea of you not being mine any longer can only be described as surreal and unbelievable, a feeling hauntingly similar to how that same mother felt when she received the ominous knock on her front door years later, the way she felt when the triangular bundle of patriotic fabric first made contact with her frail but steadfast fingers. Liquid cold encompasses me as the blood drains straight to my feet and out through the floorboards. All in that same moment I find the strength to inhale. Like the jolt of emergency paddles, I snap back to life as the gears resume their rotations.
This was not just a dream.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
daunt, spun fast in sleek
of a respiratory gleam
of a momentum moment
in fast vivid sink
**** the tremor
and squander
away, away
still the vertebrate
and drink in
the reverberate sensation
calm the stuttering lurk
behind puckered lemon lips
a resolute dynamic
an opaque concentration
soaking through fabrics hung high
so the pollen can pool
and coat the white
woven thread
with glitters of gold
sweet and waxy
relative and warm
the pollen traces
across the threads
of white woven morning
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC