"reverts" poems
My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves.
There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder:
Domestic, and Mountain.
My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses
My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in.
My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer.
My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick)
My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent.
Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly.
There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder.
Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around.
My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln.
One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee.
My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs
The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans.
My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue.
My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity.
My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged.
My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions
My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws.
According to Zeus
As long as you leave it's bones whole,
My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
He’s watching, but she’s not looking
In this new form of modern day hooking
A golden transaction
Creates an instant attraction
As the two meet in a binary realm
With a computer screen at the helm
One stares dead eyed
Completely fried
The other separates mind and body
After all, it’s not quite a hobby
Allowing a fiction to take hold
Making her actions more bold
She quells the urge
The other desired to purge
Once it’s all done
He stops calling her ***
Reverts back to the misshapen dialectic
Of a right handed epileptic
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
When she first discovered the last fictitious and missing piece, that absent link that could create
That would fit so very perfectly between her fastidious reality and her dream filled escape
That piece was what filled her with the alluring thoughts of setting the diamond edged blades aside
To let her bloodied and gore encrusted wrist's lay. To finally heal her disfigured and cleaved thighs
To set aside the insomniac coloured nights, filled with a nervous tick called suffering and misery
Bringing dread filled terror for next days coming, day and night it creeps into her lightless sanity
It graced her with the forgotten hope, that daisy chains and blades of grass would keep her honest
Hope she had long abandoned as she hid within the scarred tissue upon her mangled conscience
Telling her that she was now allowed to forget her aphotic and distressing amorphous past
It was filled with many an onus and distrusts that she choked on; from lack of air, her brain begins to crack
Her Mother and her Father thought she was a "lacking" kind child, those that required little needs
It reminded her that she would never again have to repress and crunch down those memories
They rise inside her throat, until she regurgitates them along with what little food she would eat
She sits in her room most nights, crying softly alone and wishing to be as thin as the models on TV
That last puzzle piece was supplying her with a vociferous need to put the bottle of pills down,
Many had slipped their way down her esophagus, from diet to Analgesic's, they ranged wide
They were locked away in her father's medicine cabinet, so of course she was always punctilious
Puts an aspirin in place for the ones she stole, so her parents (Would they care?) were left oblivious
She tried to push that last piece in, shoving it somewhere between a wrong scene of the puzzle
So the piece was soon to be lost, destroyed within the struggle to find the perfect place
As she was losing to and was within her blithering mind, wild and frightened, filled with dismay
She then reverts to the false reality, in which she called her final escape.
The last daring and startling move, the check mate, the final set stage of the play
Where dreams become the reality, and reality becomes the dream
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
The Irish Summer (i.e. when you only get the sunshine) is a very elusive thing
But having lived in Ireland all my life I figured it out many years ago
Although there may be some freakish weather events like the occasional heatwave
The Irish Summer lasts from the end of the English soccer season to the start of the Wimbledon tennis tournament (when the covers go on)
Those few short weeks
Then it reverts to being a mixed bag of sunshine and showers
So whenever Wimbledon starts up I always get out my thin flimsy shower proof coat
It's lovely and light so you won't be sweating
And I also have my little umbrella handy too.
Now I'm always telling people my theory of the Irish Summer
Whether they believe it or not
There's a young guy I work with and I told him my theory
Then awhile later we had to attend this big work event/meeting
It was held in Croke Park (the Gaelic football stadium) in Dublin
We were up in the Executive boxes overlooking the pitch, was really cool
We had walked there as it wasn't too far from our office
I had my showerproof on and had my little umbrella
My young workmate was just wearing a black leather jacket and had no umbrella
I thought to myself "Man, you're living dangerously"
Sure enough when we're walking back to the office
The heavens open and it ****** down on us
I'm standing there under my umbrella smiling in my showerproof
While my young friend is standing there like a drowned rat, the saddest sight
And I say to him "What did I say, didn't I tell you about the Irish Summer ?"
Then I say "Did you ever read the story of Noah's Ark ?"
I felt sorry for him and let him share my umbrella.
And the ****** still hasn't bought a showerproof
He's impossible.... he's obviously still... a non-believer.
Nov 18, 2023
Nov 18, 2023 at 2:34 PM UTC
really how sweet is the rose that ****** one to many times?
You know the one that wilts but never dies
thinking its over you go to see if its all rite
but how sweet is the rose that makes you cry
bring her some flowers
act like you love her
see if she wants to get back together
you've pricked her small finger
still her heart lingers
because what is a rose without its thorns
She reverts back to the written not spoken to speak
because to her feelings she hides them to keep
just to keep you around and to see your bright eyes
but how sweet is the rose that only ****** and never dies?
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
When tenderness turns away,
Hope breathes a final sigh.
Life reverts to shades of grey –
Love, once fluid, turns brittle and dry.
Zephyrs that often piqued an interest
And brought exotic dreams to fore –
Die as doldrums, unimpressed;
To leave one haunted, wanting more.
If Passion is Love's celebration,
The verve and spirit of its vigor -
Then Tenderness is its reflection –
In absentia; brings callousness and rancor.
In the quiet times, when passion sleeps -
Touch me softly in tenderness-
Delicate wonders that Love's company keeps
To remind me again with sweet gentleness.
Alas, when tenderness turns away,
Lost to deaf ears, that final sigh –
Love is loathe to wait or to stay,
Hearts cease to beat and Love does die.
Lin Cava©
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 4:35 PM UTC
Every now and then,
It drips
Like water
From my ceiling,
Until all I see is
The rain.
It follows me
Through the breeze
And sounds like the word
“Please”
Drowning me in shame.
I can still hear it trembling,
Like a lie
Behind clenched teeth.
A lie that no one can hear but me.
It waits until my skin
Finally feels clean,
And reverts me
Back to a time
That still tastes like seventeen.
I don’t want to remember
You in a place
You didn’t belong.
I don’t want to remember
Because no one would believe me.
But I still feel it here.
It drips like water from my ceiling.
It follows me through the breeze.
I can hear it trembling, like a lie behind clenched teeth.
A lie that only I can hear.
And it makes my skin feel *****
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC
A tremble begins to settle on seething skin
She is a maker of parasitical kin
It does not consume like a dancing fire
But it amplifies with a vision of curdling desire
Just like a mother, it grows like a molding seed
A miracle of the asexual spirit in a world of greed
Abrupt in nature, beloved by its own flesh and blood
It left an intangible mark inscribed on her soul in disguise of a hunch
A precautionary tale serves a special prevention of the ugly occurrence
What a marvelous delight it becomes when it reverts as a guide, full of opulence
But not in a sense of monetary value, rather a calculated demise
How does one understand a raw creation of wrath?
What will she become after venturing the thorny path?
Does an inquiry halts her progress in activating fury?
Is there an object of her ire that requires a narrative of her mutiny?
Why does the poison never spread like death in a rush?
Can she possibly raise an army to march with an uncontrollable urge of violence?
When will she endure the thinning of her lips to match the peace of a deafening silence?
Is there a warning to keep herself intact for the coming apocalyptic days?
Will it save the dormant history of her being through enactment of saving face?
The question remains unanswered, but the fulfillment of the instrumental vengeance shall prevail
The inappropriate conception is almost complete to its term
A note emerges from an acidic confinement for the preparation of a womanly stern
This clump of a girl is not a shameful creation for the sake of tragedy
If anything, the child's fulfilling rage will cleanse her ancestors as a token of remedy
There is no reminder of a continuing paternity names on her birth
No need for prophetic visions as she strikes down the Earth
An abundant offerings on her behalf shall never satisfy her
As the melting iron starts to sizzle the plumper skin, the blinding nostalgia of rage tastes better
She has no patience for warnings to initiate an appropriate plan
The hour of her sustainable war has begun
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 11:59 AM UTC
On the southern shore of Ontario
At the crack of dawn
With Tuck
Man and beast stroll
Eastward along the beach
Old Man Tucker reverts in an instant
To his puppy-self
We romp in the sand
Play fetch with sticks
Then hike up trails
Where the Haudenosaunee roamed
Hubdreds of years ago,
For hundreds of years
We are breathing in the crisp morning
And I am praying
And reflecting on the Iroquois feet
That trod the same paths as my own
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
Every Walmart becomes a Woolworth,
Every Everest a **** hill,
Every ocean a vapor trail,
Every love reverts to ground,
And so it goes round and round.
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 6:49 AM UTC
let me tell you about poetry
let me tell you about how the sunlight hits his eyes and his pupils dilate just enough for me to see my reflection lost in the pool of a mind full of everything but chlorine
let me tell you about the way his words electrify his touch so at one point i'm convinced i'm being struck by lightning, ready and waiting for the storm to come shortly after
let me tell you about how he likes his coffee black and about how he never seemed to learn the word bad, about how he in the most exposing hours of the night strips down to the bare minimum - his soul, about how he loses his thoughts and reverts back to old questions, about how he keeps practicing the art of deception over and over again just to prove to himself he's still got it
let me tell you about how he wears himself on his sleeve and about how i know that in the gaps between when we feel our heart beats in our throats and through our veins, we will never work out, about how he sees shades of blue but i see shades of pale, about how he's an open book but i was taught books are better kept closed, about how he's becoming my muse but the minute i start writing about them that signifies it's surely the end
let me tell you about mourning before it's begun and about the dark nights spent staying up examining self worth in a queen-sized bed with cigarette butts lining the window sills, about the beautiful agony created and the torturous goodbyes
let me tell you about standing on the edge of a cliff with only two options in front of you and having to ask yourself if it's worth the fall, about how you're so scared of being pushed no matter the promises, but how you know that no matter the spears beneath, his face is all you'd see every single moment your body was falling towards the earth, one step closer to oxygen and closer to death
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
Avrenim: Log late 5155. The moving planet of Raspen:
I passed through a planet in a section of the Raspen Galaxy I have never been before. The planet was a moving steller body that did not orbit any sun. It sustained its own energy through core-rifting. Core-rifting was when a planet had mega chasms that were so deep the energy from the core could be felt on the surface. The planet was much larger than my home planet. This planet must have been the size of my sun my planet orbited around. The energy from the core would vent out into the atmosphere creating Light rifts in the sky. Or should I say Sun slashes. Sun slashes are what brought the day to this strange moving planet. A sun slash was light that was trapped inside of a reflective prism in this planets diamond like clouds. If I am correct the cloud material here is called Solacian. Solacian captures light an reflects it inside itself creating a sun slash. The sun slash is the sun here. Depending on the angle of the captured light the sun slash will last about 31 hours.
The life here on this moving planet seems to live in a beautiful harmony. It exist as energy at first and then becomes something entirely different. The energy turns into oraganic bodies for a while then reverts back to its state of energetic divinity. The energy then seems to melt in the Solacian clouds above. I follow an energy mass into a cloud and watch a beautiful memory being lived out by an oraganism that once died long ago. It brought me to tears when I found out that the organism did not know it had died so long ago. Everything here had died some time ago. But nothing here was sad. There was no anger or despair. Only happiness, joy, love, and creation. Could this be Anavrin!?
Anavrin could never be found. And it all makes sense now. It could never be found because it was always moving about the universe. Anavrin in my culture is called Heaven. Which brings me to my next question. Am I here for a reason. I have no memory of dying. And what makes matters worse is that no one here does either.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
Next to my son's anger
plate tectonics are nothing
to me. His unhappiness
was caused by me.
His purpose and mine
is to catch photons and
store them in our bones.
Time measures change
which continues without
self-doubt. There is no self.
Therefore, why care about
my son's anger
or my guilt?
Why do we have imaginary
numbers anyway?
The imaginary i allows us
to find solutions to many equations
that do not have real number solutions.
It is actually common for equations
to be unsolvable in one number system
but solvable in another:
—with only the counting numbers, we can’t solve x+8=1; we need the
integers for this!
—with only the integers, we can’t solve 3x-1=0; we need the rational
numbers for this!
—with only the rational numbers, we can’t solve x2=2; enter the
irrational numbers!
—and with only the real numbers, we can’t solve x2= -1;
we need the imaginary numbers for this!
Is it possible as Deutsch
suggests that the changes
a self-aware organism can
applying the scientific method
instantiate are innumerable
compared to those of the sun or any big bang?
Therefore, one must care
about the harm you've done
or the good you'd do.
"Death initiates a complex process by which the human body gradually
reverts to dust
but minerals may fill the cracks and voids, bonding the hydroxyapatite
and allowing the bones to join . . ."
in the happy tectonics
of the earth's plates.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
There are three bright spots worth looking for on cloudy days.
In the morning, it’s coffee with you. We find our silver lining in a hole-in-the-wall cafe near the market where fish fly, talking vividly about what we dreamed as muted light finds its way through the window where we sit. We save the moment, but say bye too fast as if we had flights of our own to catch. And we loose sight of each other in the never-ending current of strangers rushing past. The sky reverts to its stone grey self, and I drift in the company of office buildings, weightless as the clouds from my breath.
We meet again, at a walk-up noodle joint on the pier. We share a steaming bowl of tonkatsu ramen and gaze at the mist-covered bay, talking about the jobs that keep us from waking up. The sun peeks through a blanket of overcast to find us. We take a selfie: in it, we are beaming. We say bye again, this time, with an embrace as warm as the soup on our lips. We save the moment, floating alongside the edge of the water with a glow that will see us through the chilly night ahead.
The last bright spot is the golden hour. It gets dark far too early here, so there is no time to waste. We spend what’s left of it together, over a drink that burns when swallowed in a dimly lit bar beneath a stairwell. It begins to rain. We say nothing this time, and instead, share an unspoken understanding of who we are at the end of cloudy days. We put a finger on it, and promise that we’ll see each other again no matter how heavy the fog may get. We’ll find our way through. We save one last moment and slip into the wintery mist, seeing clear.
In a place with as much grey area as this, the word ‘alone’ looks blurred: it’s ‘all’ and ‘one’ put together, where nothing is missing. The selfie we took comes into focus: it was myself, a complete stranger in my own company. Now, when it's cloudy outside, we see each other through it, filling whatever is empty like a glass, toasting to the brightness found within.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 11:15 PM UTC
As the darkness starts its crusade to ally with a storm’s invincible march, assuming an ill-fated retaliation, to a tower I ask, ”how long?”. He chuckles and reverts with the latent puissance. The mightiest roar at the advent of dawn gets me and passes by saying ‘REMEMBER ATLAS?’
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
Often her beauty is passed over,
Many a dress is wasted,
She cannot acquire his attention,
No matter how she dresses up,
She dies at every failure,
She longs for a single glance,
To be graced by a single word,
Living to be noticed by him,
Every night she dreams,
Of life with him and her,
The pangs of love chain her,
To a life of slavery,
After her will is broken,
When she is no longer strong,
She reverts to her more natural self,
And he seeks her out,
He finds and admires her person,
He sees that she is at peace,
She cannot believe it was so easy,
To meet her only love,
All of our faking and strutting,
All of the false looks,
They only cover our colors,
And hide us from true love,
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
The body's Atman falls to sorrow.
Its path to the higher being is stalled by chance.
Its gleaming red jewel reverts to coal
And its beat sings an anguish filled aria.
Its head filled with thoughts of death,
Its hand holds a chalice filled with bane.
Day after day the body withers like flowers
That have endure countless, rainless summers.
It seeks salvation from its afflictions
And looks to faith for spiritual relief,
But the lone syllable gives no shelter
From the fear of self inflicted ill.
Years he spends in wonder,
In search of that he cannot answer.
On top the highest mountain he stands
Meditating on what the Thunder said.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 10:09 AM UTC
It is true
When they say
You're not you
When you're hungry
It ruins your day
When your belly is empty
Of plentiful joy
Then the slightest disturbance
Can leave you annoyed
And in dealing with others
Be flippant and curt
And in making progress,
Listless and inert
It reverts you to primacy,
Primitive need
And converts sharing, caring
To hording and greed
And will lead you to do
What you wouldn't dare deign
To consider permissible
Ways to attain
Your next meal
When you hear
Only your stomach rumbles
Succumbing to them
Just as the
Cookie crumbles
Until irrepressible
Monsters emerge
To devour whatever in sight
Can encourage
You to
Once again
Crack a mollified smile
Until the resurgence
Beguiles the bile
And after a while
Elapses, redaction
For while it grasps
At your brief satisfaction
You think only of
What remains
You can ration
As later-on's pangs
Boomerang
Right back atch'ya
The moment the flavor
Can no more be savored
And cravings enslave you again
To the anger
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 10:46 AM UTC
Powerful words move the hearts of man
Humanity described in terms that we understand
Angry and happiness seemed hand in hand
The ending of this story long told reverts and began
Began to start to settle and began to start to end
Through and through we wish you well
Through it all we stand.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Time like a river has past.
Like an ocean, it has accumulated.
I, a captain, of land have I seen of last.
To the edges of oblivion have I, myself relegated.
Of the thousand steps have I walked.
Of this earth have I wandered.
Of solitude have I carefully stalked.
Of you I have dared not pondered.
So long in this desert, so long in this desolation.
So long have I felt not a motion nor a spur.
To the frost bitten isles, to the coldest snows, of warmth I have no relation
My skin has hardened of its shell my heart will not be lured.
And yet when I stop.
When my corded muscle ceases in its motion.
And in a hardened mind a sprinkle of doubt.
And weary eyes turn to look back and thus begins my erosion.
For there is no solace in this distance.
No comfort in this silence.
The emotion, my every action withstands.
Of all my efforts of violence.
I feel, and therefore I am undone.
I feel and my strength and will slayed, fall down
I feel and time reverts and it feels like it did when it all begun
I feel and my through my bedrock erupts anguishes sound.
I remember a face laced in roses.
Like a dream I am carried back into your arms.
And around me comfort closes
And again I am besotted with your charms
I remember it all and that is the source of my madness.
Of a loss of ones mind, not of reason, but of emotion.
To be left barren, in pain constantly empty and loveless.
Of our union I gained something that merrited my devotion.
And at its loss, my mind broke at the eight of its cost.
And so I turn away from the warmth of memory.
I toss myself into the fire and the storm of loss.
I grind myself against life's emery.
"Destroy me" I cry.
"For I cannot bare this cruelty you have visited upon me."
But I only become harder in body and in soul not matter how hard I try.
Of the end as I walk I cannot see.
Out of this darkness I cannot find my light.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
And why is it that with every sip of bourbon
I gaze into your eyes?
How can it be that I smell your perfume everywhere?
What sense does it make that I see your face in my dreams?
I have not seen you in so long yet almost every thought I have reverts to you....
Though I do not complain,
Somehow it causes pain
To see all yearn, no gain, from seeming I'm insane,
I awake with your kiss on my lips,
For false dreams and hopes, your memory sticks,
What's worse, is that we converse with quips
Of how it may have been, yet is,
You sway as the ocean's tide at dawn,
When beautiful sunlight crest's its yawn,
As innocent as a devout deer's fawn,
Yet your guile does show its brawn,
Your vision to me in dreams is steady,
Stagnant at night while my heart grows heavy,
If only you knew, if only I'd say
That the warmth for you yet grows each day,
Each moment that passes craves detention,
Respect for all my admiration,
Betwixt your legs and arms' invention,
I pray to spend each night's volition.
Of all the words in my graspable language,
You escape all knowledge of my brain's sanguine,
And of all the things I could say and do,
The plainest and strongest, I Love You.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Waking is like that final breath before the plunge
Down deeper into the thick of possibility
Where I find the Nietzchian mastery
That mentality that dominates and conquers
Leaving behind the pitiful
Weaker modes of being
That sharp edge of nihilism that propagates
The negation of substantial purpose
And living becomes a series of tasks that are manageable
Not the overbearing jumbled cluster **** of modern man
How I dream of Walden
That escape to find existential meaning
That reverts me back to an independent self that relies on not man but nature
To derive sustenance
Long for that shack
In the middle of no where where the worry of the day is to feed myself
And to stare at the stars
Instead of work long hours and still have no freedom to see
But it is not probable that I will have an escape
For the planet is dying one tree at a time
And the ignorance of our species is making
My exodus a place worse than the suburb
At least there I don't witness the choking of innocent creatures on pollution
Gasping for air through lungs riddled with fume
And foaming on plastic by product
While I contribute no animosity towards my mother I participate by association
And feed the monster it's favorite treat
That sickly green paper
And a snack of penny meat
While my exceedingly more mechanical mind cranks the cogs tighter
And starts to rhyme
Filling in the line space and paying my dues I become another body
Thus a weapon to the corporate move
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
the rain is wonderful, it makes you feel like you are in a capsule, that you are cradled, and anything is possible, washing out the old day and bringing in the new, its nice, sometimes you drift away and find yourself falling into the couch, and you imagine the homeless, trying to keep dry, but perhaps they see it as a blessing too, a shower perhaps, they stink real bad
and then the bit of rain stops, and it reverts to a light sprinkle, and your ears perk up, waiting for the next hit, hoping for it, you feel the gust of wind the last one brought in, nice, the windows opened just so, drip drop, drip drop
and then you’re ****** why did it stop?
oh well
just keep
pondering
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
Staring into the limitless
An infinite spectrum of qualities
Devoted to expressing the duplicitous nature of divinity
To construct reality to hold both fabrication and purity at such equal esteem perplexes the pieces that perceive the local frame for such a minuscule amount of time and yet it binds the boundaries of evolution, attaching string after string, until every good thing becomes muddled and unclear
Not from hatred, nor fear or depravity
But from the tumultuous distinctions made when a pattern found itself being in rear to itself
And then it finds it's equilibrium once the fluidity of origin reverts attention from every intention muscled from the nudge of inner tranquility
They code or key in the magic of three
Nature begets life begets virtue to enlighten the majesty
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC