"reused" poems
it’s confusing to me
and maybe this is where
the grooming,
psychological abusing
comes from.
i’m used and discarded,
tossed into the recycling bin
until i’m reused again.
and again.
every time making me
a little weaker
than the time before.
a little less able to refuse.
a little easier to bend,
to break.
the lack of permanency
in the place i long for,
the place in which
i never got to stay for long,
only to be hauled away and
returned upon further notice.
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 7:00 AM UTC
***** feet
***** of them ache
they're dry
all dried out, moisture to face and digestive tract make little difference
but comfort a little sort of; maybe
subdue to replenishing
skip the pain with a drink fucken, fucken drink fucken
dust lingers in the brain, it swirls
a cloud of ground envelops the shape of u
u become covered
u have a layer,
salty,
and dry
and 'organic'
(surely bio (though im not sure what is or why are))
full city boy, suburban boy, not particularly gritty boy
along side hippies
and volunteers all tripppy
and unwashed, and un plastic
yet forcefully hemped
drunk of micro beer
and burnt brown and blotchy red
and wire-y
and dry
and matted
as if nothing really matters except for principles
misguided and randomly enforced
feel like a husk; peanut shell
insides swallowed by the mouth of the party embodied
a monsterous sweaty man tanned and thickly bearded
and beered
fat dreads fall around and surround u; a forest of hair
a circle encroaching of fuzzy pillars in fibres
entrapped inside them; feel their lingering time matted hold
a wealth of effort to become unkempt; they are bars
they are walls
and the FACE!
……………………… ………………………………… oh
looming down, wafts of armpit vapour cloud; a looming puft that surrounds
engorged by the scent as it circles u, the mouth that lowered onto u
chews u and spills bits of u
chomp chomp
protein for vegetarians; u; ur rigour ur vigour ur guts
eaten in a flurry of chomps and slurps and it crunches
and it grates
like the rocks on the ***** of ur feet it grates
u are digested
and reused
as they would like
but for them; for a collective u dived into
for fun
2 days to peddle ur wares
to progress ( admittedly through some days of regression…)
for all humans, and Humans; for fun
on monday we will repent
for the damages waged on the inside of the body
and the outsides too
for some gain
i guess on this which we settle
for always for display for fun
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
the rain wet floor
the man with a birth mark in the shape of Pangea
the backwards baseball cap
the re-used meme
the re-used meme
the idea of “retro”
cumulus clouds floating
heavy &
overhead
all electrical goods just sitting on stand-by
waiting
the machines are waiting
the blueprints that are 1mm out
at right angles to the rest of the world neon lights flash downtown
reflected on wet concrete
arriving at a destination and not knowing how you got there
my glasses leave an indentation on the side of my head
my children are asleep and I can see the signs
a new Netflix series that goes on for 125weeks – I have no stamina for this –
the mundane beauty of a leisure centre
the perfection of the shopping mall
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 7:38 AM UTC
is this craft
that chose you,
not defined by millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye pleasing
they demonstrate
no tolerance
for tolerance
of the
ordinary
the skill of words,
too, cut so fine,
find the
extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused, discard,
instant recognition,
unusable
cut new cuts,
thy spirit tolling,
thy soul trolling
anew
is thy
toolings earth sourced
from and of the
ever better,
ever closer,
always newer
make thy own designs,
faithfully execute
the new born original,
by elevating,
with the tools
in you, provide us,
by illuminating
no thing machined,
can ever be as fine
as the originality
that requires
soft spoken definition
in new ways,
heart and hand
guild crafted
when God designed the Connecticut
autumnal leaves,
overriding the summers's single green, good
but not miraculous, insufficient,
when contrasted with the
shades of red, yellow,
purple, black, orange, pink,
magenta, blue and brown
of newly fallen
words and worlds
in the season of change
write me a tool
so elegant, so complex,
so refined and yet so simple,
that its point will force no choice,
but engrave gasps of pleasure upon
my faltering eyes,
my slowing heart,
my exhausted limbs,
and make me
live again
through your
finest creativity
heat heat heat
burn to look beyond
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
We have our allotment,
our bit and our share,
an instant, a moment,
it can seem so unfair.
I'm running and chasing,
I'm trying to subdue,
theres no way to stop it,
it can quickly allude.
It's often just wasted,
or squandered away,
and feel so eternal,
like a long lonely day.
The cost,
you can't buy it,
and it's easily misused,
It's treasured and priceless,
and can never be reused.
No matter,
how badly,
you try and hold on,
you can't even touch it,
then it's suddenly gone.
So just make the best,
and do what you can,
sieze every small moment,
in this very small span.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 8:59 AM UTC
Air
by Ahmad ***
There is air between us
That touches everything
Every part of the world
Has touched some other part of the world
At some time or other
We are all living in air
There is air that we breathe
That is in us all
That is in everything
Even the deepest depths of the ocean
To the deepest cave
Still has some air
Touching
Swirling
Caressing us all the same
It blows with force sometimes
To let us know it's there
None of us are separated
Though we are separated by space
Separated by time
There might be air in between
But all of our hearts are connected
In their own ways
And every single one of us
At some point in our lives
Has been recycled by the Earth
And by the air
And by the ground
Recycled and reused
Death and rebirth
Played over and over again
Until we all are apart of each other
And we are a part of the Earth
We can't deny it
We all live here on this Earth
Breathing the same air
Taking up the same space
Living together on this Earth we call home
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
Life is the prattle of an old lady.
She squawks either too loudly
or makes you crane to hear.
as she sits rocking,
her senile nonsense numbs your intelligence
until you sit bleary-
gaping at the air
like the fattest fish in the aquarium.
your every comment drowns
in the mush
of her tapioca voice.
you sit uncomfortably in her fishbowl world of
cottage cheese,
faded floral print- lace doilies
and contemplate your deft superiority
as her denture clicks gnaw on your sanity.
as soon as you think
a vague plotline surfaces in her mumbling
a new great aunt’s third cousin’s baby
weaves its way into the conversation,
and you are hopelessly thrown
like a reused dryer sheet
back into the colored load.
occasionally you attempt to establish a connection
between you and the venerable wrinkled smile
but she mishears and begins another
disconnected strain
featuring Bobby, the lad turned soldier.
but
just
as soon as you gain confidence
that you know how to handle this doddery senior-
she slams you with a small token
of sage advice
that shatters your naïve sphere
with its mind-wrenching validity.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
Visions of oppositions, positions and prison. The forward missions, the capitalism, criticism and optimism. The Amor, the adored, the allure and the awards! The doors, the poor, the gore and the sore.
The any and many! The many hoards of pennies, before the lords of plenty. The awkward, the backward, the hospital wards and the
mental. Furthermore, more roar and war with a governmental evil,
medieval in blue! Therefore as I do accrue the clues, the dues, the hues and views. Something’s of me? My belated peeling, feelings related to that of a shrine of the divine. Etched and sketched by a pencil and stencil. Designed by the heavens divine. A displaced or misplaced,
abused, bruised and reused utensil. Something’s of me? I am often depressed, half-dressed and suppressed. Distraught and stressed by
thoughts, thoughts that are fought, sought and taught. As I endeavor, forever dedicated. However, medicated or sedated! A neglected, suspected sinner. A grinner and winner in entice haste, with precise
pace! As I taste the waste of this offending never-ending race. Regardless heartless, relentless congress. Yes, in confessing to you; beware of the care, the dare, the flare, the rare of scare! Attempt to see
what I have seen in contempt! In-between or as a teen. The obscene or serene! The many scenes at the seams. Driven by schemes and themes
it seems! Full of the brave that craves! The deprave and the rave. Those things which sing from the grave... Something’s of me? These are no lies, as a book carefully look into my sorrowful eyes. See why I despise, why I am wise. Look beyond the ancient, powerful skies.
They’re in wonderful constant, radiant disguise. Something’s of me?
My sensitive life of delight in fight, fright and plight. My life of sight, my life of trite. My negative pride! My life’s awesome, positive stride! Inside as I cry, as I hide… I depressingly, devotedly, ignorantly, triumphantly, unfortunately, hopefully and literally say. I am definite that one day I will embark into the dark. Emulate as a creative,
relative spark! Onto Noah’s great and infinite ark. Sailing into the prevailing, unveiling rain... with much too gain, maintain, regain and retain. Believing, weaving and leaving the grieving, the blame, the flame, the fame, the insane and the pain.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
there's something about sadness,
that's just so comforting.
and something about madness,
that's just so safe.
and i'm not sure why
but my mind has been poisoned
by negativity and resentment.
The flood of emotion
that drowns me in my sorrows
is a crutch and a curse
and every instance
is a reason to feel hatred
and sadness and rebellion.
it's hard to stay sane
when everything
and everyone
changes almost instantly
and consistency is foreign.
my lack of faith
comes from my overwhelming
fear of being left alone and cold
so i find safety in solitude
and i find comfort
in feeling nothing at all.
maybe this is why
everything i write sounds the same
and everything i conjure up
all ends up reverting back
to what once was
and why lines reused
is just my way of clinging
to the only amount of
consistency i can control.
i have never been one
to tell how i feel
or speak of my past
that is buried beneath
the wings i haven't yet
used to fly away from here
because i fear,
happiness
just like sadness
and every other emotion
for that matter
is just a crazy,
illusion
that leaves the bruises
in my mind
and the scars
on my wrist
because finding an outlet,
that gives you what you need
is almost as rare as
someone understanding you.
and the blood spilling from your veins
is temporary,
the love leaving your lips
is temporary
which is why
in life you will always
somehow, someway
be secondary.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
"A holstered product secretly hunts after its own end product-"
"-not metal targets nor flying geese, but mortality."
A man, with graying hair and pursed lips, told me this. A well-trained and prayered piety had crept along, pounced, and overcome him. Like Edison, a creative obsession gripped his spine and puppeteered the entire body. It was a plague, he called it, or something like that. Even at a young age, gaurdian 1 & 2 lulled him to the steeple's hiding. He noted how the steeple was always at mast. His children would observe the same detail, live the same routine. I studied the curious character for weeks. A facsimile of the Word seemed permanently pressed on his brain, trapped behind devout eyes- For weeks I studied him, give me more time! Each biblical page was scribbled and creased, share and reused. -no longer. "My holster found its mortal tonight, friend. I'll raise the barrel and create a grand scene."
Slight pause, heavy breathe, slow speak. "Colossal at best."
by Kendra Cook
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
“The Weight of the Untold” (Pradip)
<•>
6:55am: Jan 2 nine twenty twenty five
(read the comments first)
enveloped by the early mix
of morning’s hangover of dark
blue gray, window glints of a
sun playing peekaboo over the
yet there (!) Manhattan skyline,
the utter “ness” of the stilled,
unwritten, unstirred, uncolored
dim of medium shadowy light,
the quietude is an actual thing,
a warming coverlet of cozy peace
am I not forcibly compelled to
write of the weight of white spaces,
Pradip pokes my curious anxiety,
as I question my own words, that
he tosses back to me, so so oft
he ****** the cells of my fingertips
to peek, to bleed, then peck letters
from within, to comprehend my
museum artifacts of words,
the weight of their panoply
of mystery
How, how can the white weight of
our seemingly empty spaces tween
words, carry this burden on its,
bony shoulders, can’t we just let them
be, like the breaths exhaled, the
disappearing exhaust of being human,
is it necessary to carry knowing knowledge,
of what needs no body, isn’t the inexplicable
better left unimagined, there be so much tolling troubles, let them be left masked, they’ll appear as embodied black letters, of-when, their discord is accorded their moment of due…no more need to succumb prematurely
to this onerous lighter than air pressurized crushing atmosphere of reused oxygen
did I awake just to prove my existence, to offer up this combination of vocabulary of wondering, one more explication of the unknowns that are visible to the naked eyes, big, hard, factuals better left alone…and suddenly the morning light has arrived,
dear god,it will be a sun-filled sky,
and that weight, is modestly eased,
never fully erased, but you know,
I know, most of its occupants
even those
who won’t show their faces
And perhaps they should remain
hidden in the white spaces
between the letters and the words,
u. n. t. o. l. d.
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 8:07 AM UTC
everyone feels sad
angry
pathetic
used
abused
confused
reused
everyone uses
abuses
drinks
delays
betrays
I haven't been through the worst of it yet
I need to toughen up
This is just passing a kidney stone
From taking everything with two grains of salt
and it will get better down the road
sweet heart sweet beloved child hunny bae
cliche
I'll cut and burn you out of my brain anyway
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
Algiers, six
floors up but
still
the rich
odor of reused
cooking oil, of limp French
fries makes its
way to this
tiled top floor
balcony, an absolute sky
scraper by local standards. The
low whine of traffic
reaches me –
syncopated, punctuated
by a workman’s
hammer, an impatient
horn, the wail of a car
alarm, a quick shout
of greeting, of
anger. I
can almost see that
far away
in the distance
velvet mountains still
bluely rim
the fog-yellowed
sea.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
is this craft that chose you, not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute, curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance for tolerance of the
ordinary?
***the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the extraordinary within, refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite, the reused, discard the instant recognition,
unusable***
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
These walls can talk
They tell me your'e insecure.
These walls can talk they tell me your'e not sure.
You was abused and misused.
Utterly confused, you refuse to be reused.
Pain afflicted,
Mind conflicted.
My brain was consumed by depression and the pressure of impressions.
You keep all the pain bottled inside, you need to express your expressions.
The lessons we learn are the tests we fail,
I can tell you tired and weak.
If These walls could speak,
They'd tell me all of your secrets and lies.
I can feel your pain kept inside.
Gold lives inside of you.
You was suicidal, your mind was the devil's bridal.
Face down at my feet, but im still undefeated.
I needed my space but somehow you got deleted.
These walls are colored,
But I'm surrounded by white walls that try to keep me closed in.
I talk to God like I was Moses friend.
I feel the walls closing in.
Walls can talk.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
Today, I must write a poem:
What this poem has to say
has yet to come to mind.
Has yet to ignite like a spark
on a cord
making its way
to an explosive source of ideas.
Such an amenity
so unlikely to be found
happening here.
I must again mine for thoughts.
So, along with my pickaxe,
I trek with good memories
to return me safely back
from the deepest recesses of my mind.
I hunt.
For idea. For inspiration,
For I cannot return
empty handed.
I dig. And I dig. And I dig.
It feels like forever,
as if there's nothing left,
as if the mountain of my mind
was tapped dry long ago.
I check every crevice,
every corner, and nook,
now ridden with old
and reused ideas.
And then I find it:
The first flower of spring;
the cloud in clear sky;
the single rock of inspiration;
possibly the last chunk of idea
for years to come
simply sitting there,
lighting up
the dark caverns of my mind,
waiting to take shape.
As I begin to mold
As I begin to sculpt
"It" is no longer an it.
Ideally, it's an idea
that has succumbed to the darkest,
most vile parts of my mind.
Yet, despite,
has been brought out the depths of
being just an idea, withering away;
it has been realized.
It has been successfully plucked
at its time of harvest.
It has become so much more;
this once coal of an idea
has been polished,
and glimmers just as bright
as its diamond-like companions.
So, I return
with yet another triumph,
from braving the dark and cold
labyrinth of my mind
yielding my trophy;
my idea.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
I wrote a paper in school
about ancient myths
using an old typewriter
and by candle-light,
wrapped up in a comforter
that cold winter night,
despite the propane heater
in the dining room.
All of our utilities
were shut off for months,
electric, gas, and water;
we had no money.
We were getting food-bank meals,
and making our own
candles out of reused wax.
It felt pitiful,
and in the days leading to
my paper due date
I was told repeatedly
that it must be typed.
The school library was closed
before my last class
ended, and we had some fines
at the public one.
Here's a myth I often hear,
though not learned in school,
party politics will say,
"They wanted handouts."
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
I blame the drugs,
I blame the alcohol,
I blame the despair and the hopelessness that
Put you there.
I blame society.
I blame aggressive personalities.
Taking us down 10 pins at a time.
I blame the pin reset for taking too long
and being faulty at its job.
I blame the selfishness.
I blame the greed.
I blame the world for ******* artists
dry of their passion.
Paying far too much money for splatters of paint
on a canvas.
Paying far too much for songs without meaning
without talent.
That are recycled and reused.
For if I went to art school I'd pay far much more money
To go than I would make in my life.
I am bitter and resentful of what I hear every
single
god ****
day.
I blame this chilling loneliness
which shatters my bones.
I blame myself for not picking myself up out of this mess
And moving on.
It's my voice in my head
That's keeping me from getting where I need to be.
That's keeping me from trying harder than my hardest.
That kept me in bed and not at school today.
It's where I need to be.
I realize that some things are my fault.
I realize that others are not.
I look out the window and I want to cry
Because this 'beautiful world' full of possibilities
never fails to just pass on by.
I am consumed by despair.
And I don't enjoy it.
I don't know what to do anymore.
I'm twenty years old.
To be twenty one in 4 months.
I feel like a 42 year old woman
Stuck at home
Being a mooch.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 1:14 PM UTC
These nights
are like
Harlots.
Each one
promising
a new type
of fantasy,
to be reused
over and
over.
Without
any type
of caressing
or shame.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
I want to change the world
Not by standing up and speaking
Not by having excessive valor
But by changing people's ideas
Changing the minds of even the most stubborn people
By simply using beautiful, flowing words
In long or short
Old and new
Original and reused
Poetry
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC