"restating" poems
It took a hastily-made hangman puzzle
to **** you, a present-day friend
of mine to simply whisper
that three-letter word
as if she were restating the gospel.
Ironic, then, that as you were dying,
I felt an era-long noose loosening.
I remember finding skin pores
mistakenly labelled as sinkholes,
every confession warranting
a "believe me, we knew" after the other.
If you had spent any more time,
an indefinite amount of days
deciding to stay lurking
in the corners of the closet,
out there in the rafters
where no one could hear you
whispering poison into my gut reactions,
I might have sprouted
a kamikaze bloodline,
a raucous rhythm in the ranks
cackling louder with each year
of silence, each span of secrecy.
Although your plastic inflection
vanished with a collective
unlocking of the joints,
your cryptic sentiment still loiters
while my common sense is sleeping,
and I remember to repeat,
three times like Dorothy,
that moment I could only
be my true self on paper.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 4:40 AM UTC
Words, words hurt even if they are just restating facts.
Facts somehow now twisted by how they were originally delivered.
Passing on information to people I think should know.
Know for my heart, know for my peace of mind.
But jealousy it seems should always be forgotten.
Talking about it magnifies it beyond what it is, just slight and simple.
I made a man into a monster in her eyes.
Something he doesn't deserve.
I sit in the midst of a love triangle in which the woman doesn't want either of us.
She just wanted to be friends with both of us.
Now her urge to be more intimate with me as a friend is blocked by a barrage of concentration on a subject that should be so light and whimsical.
And a friend who had his heart crushed by seeing that intimacy.
I feel like a wolf, these words bite and wrangle, and won't dissipate for 100 years, says Muhammad, pbuh.
I always think work will become easier, but tests multiply, and it stays hard - hard in heart.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 11:36 PM UTC
...being a beacon for darkness
...being a deacon of evil
...seeing no evil regardless
...seeing honesty as a hurtle
...restating unholy responses
...restating there'll be no upheaval
...ruling with no conscience
...ruling different for different people
...playing your god against us
...playing yourself in the process
...knowing none of it is real
...knowing if it is your going to hell
©2024
Apr 14, 2024
Apr 14, 2024 at 9:10 PM UTC
“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
I'm waiting for inspiration
And I'm left wanting
Wanting my writing to be well thought out
And pleasant to read and hear
Even if the subject itself is not
But I hate to wait
It takes too long
I want to create poetry
But my creativity can't keep up with the demand of my twitching fingers
The want, the need
To create something
But not knowing what that something is
It's infuriating to say the least
So I rush
I put out unfinished, not well thought out pieces
In order to satiate that itch
I swear I'm not a boring person
I just tend to feel the same things
Over, and over
So all my poems start to sound the same
Monotonous, restating old ideas
Because I don't think about it
Or I think too much
I try too hard
To sound different
Unique
But that's not who I am
I'm just a boy
Who happens to fall in love too easily
And has a voice
But no clear message
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
Throughout the day they chime
Telephone off the hook ring
one eight hundred calls are frequent
Unknown names appear periodically
Despite my number being unlisted
The owner decides to tell it straight
And it goes on nevertheless
To make him do the ultimate
Would pull the plug for fear of
draining the brain from restating
All that have been stated far too often
And that's the best choice to remain calm
This pulling plug thing works great
As the answering machine would not pick up
The intruder's voice thus stopped
Before it had a chance to irk
Throughout the day they chime
Telephone off the hook ring
one eight hundred calls are frequent
Unknown names appear periodically
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Seventeen.. it all feels so different yet the same...
I remember all the friends and fires that came
And the ones that left, mistakes I made
I recant them here under stratospheric shade
Under dark of night and heavy rain
Restating thoughts of bliss and pain
I remember blood rains and dragon tails
Wolves, foxes, a tiger or two, my imagination never fails
Together with my brother I've carried it all
Through brainstorms and stories tall.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
you could travel to india.
you could hop on a plane
and end up something like
10,000 miles away from here
in the middle of the rain forest
overlooking a beautiful waterfall,
the mist kissing your cheeks just
the perfect amount to remind you
that you're loved by Mother Earth.
you could do that. sure, you could do that.
or you could dig a really big hole,
i'm talking about a massive hole
that you could start to climb down in
and work towards reaching the center of the earth,
running into all sorts of mythical creatures:
demons and demigods, demogorgons and dugtrio.
you could get way way deep down there
and find that in the center of it all is
Indra's net, and all of a sudden
everything in the universe makes sense.
and it would make sense. and you'd be right.
or you could realize it all
right here and right now.
you could understand that
going anywhere out there
really doesn't take you anywhere.
you could see that by going anywhere
you prove that you don't quite understand
the point of what you are doing.
you're putting lipstick on a pig.
you're restating the directions
instead of just following them.
"Bake the cake at 450 for 10 minutes" becomes
"Cook the pastry one degree above 449 for 600 seconds."
the truth is that you've got every right to do that.
it's just that one way or another
you don't eat unless the cake gets baked,
and it doesn't matter how many ways you read the instructions,
you've still gotta put it in the oven and wait.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
If this was the solution to everything
Why did it take so long for it to sting?
I poured the alcohol long ago
And rubbed it on my wounds
I tried to tell you I needed help
Upon many, many moons
Did restating my question make more sense?
What is it that finally clicked?
Is my pain finally too much for you?
Has your soul, too, been knicked?
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
One of her last remaining Snakeshead died from his wounds,
Restating his oath to serve Andulan before slipping beneath the black,
No song awaited him on the other side, only pools of venom,
On an island of silence.
That killed down to the last, knew his survival was heavy,
So he tore off a symbol of his responsibilty, from a brotherly neck.
Andulan was found passed out and alone, with a starry sky above to glimpse upon,
It didn't exist for him, all that mattered was that his beloved was still alive,
Battered and bruised, but living nonetheless.
He carried her off into the forest, taking her to a clearing beside a frog filled pond.
It croaked with slimy life, pouches of green littered the vernal pool, filled with capsules.
It was a melodious, low pitched song that eased him to sleep beside her,
He'd wake up with her lying over him.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
If you love me let me know
Because I'm not yet ready to completely let go,
I say yet with cause,
Because I'm tired of being wrapped so tightly in the gauze
of your life. Because without yet,
You have to get
to the conclusion alone that we cannot escape
the inevitable. We cannot recreate
what we had, saying had
because we're bad
enough that we lost what we found sparked our curiosity
of love.
That what pushed us forward with such animosity
is gone.
You have chosen to lose hope in us
You have chosen to give up on us
Thus restating the completely frustrating inevitable life sentence you have created that is in itself, over.
What are we that in a sea full of lies I can look into your eyes and still have hope for the future. But we have an effect,
An effect not know yet,
That could solely heat a city of a thousand men.
Don't say we're over unless you're ready to bulldozer our empire.
You can't retire a burning fire without first using a water hose.
Don't close your eyes if you're gonna realize that everything you're about to lose is worth more than the muse of a memory.
Don't give up hope and let a threat threaded rope of words hang from your neck after you've already slain the dragon and won the battle.
Happiness is worth fighting for.
That's why I'll spend my lifetime fighting.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC