"revisions" poems
I usually begin these rants with a question.
But i find myself lacking in just this instance.
For whom can say.
Anything more
When ash refuses to respond.
No message can be relayed.
Just more things that i silently promise.
As i figuratively toast to a memory that will never do you justice.
Is it disrespectful to take words so literal.
To the point.
That looking down gun barrels and beer bottles.
Turned into a ****** routine that pride would boast.
Only there was no smile in my smile.
Inhaling disappointment.
As the years of missed visits and substance abuse.
Led me here.
At your deathbed.
wishing my words could reach beyond.
Without worry of a certain spectres blade in my shadow.
Then somehow.
I made my word.
The only thing worth asking about.
Because allowing the past to weave around the last routine we shared.
Would force everything that i have come to embody.
To null
Et fin.
But no.
Your gift was ever changing.
Trading a jack for skills.
While masking scars that only those with them would know of.
And in the darkest moments did i find a crystal.
Clear.
Resolve.
To struggle onward.
Tears wont spell the revisions we seek.
and i was taught to always look my best, no matter the destination.
Everything that i am.
Came from you.
It didn't come from a book nor a Professor.
I can only hope to pass on your wisdom.
Although cryptic at times.
Will remain in my heart.
So even though I will forever be thinking of a new metaphor.
A penny will sit in my pocket.
Until the day that I can place it in your palm.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 5:25 AM UTC
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window panes
There will be time
There will be time to prepare a face
To meet the faces that you meet
There will be time to ****** and create
And time for all the works and days of hands that lift a hand to drop a question on your plate
Time for you and time for me
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And time for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
Ten page paper
Orchestral Excerpt Jury
Music History
Sight Singing exam
Practice piano
Piano final
Make revisions
Evaluate
Drink coffee
Cry
Get drunk
Try the ten page paper again
Take some advil to get through the jury
Try to wake up in time to get to 8am Music History
Hope to not get a sore throat for singing exam
Piano piano piano piano
What were we talking about in religion?
What am I doing my paper on?
When's it due?
Music. Music. Music. Music.
Cry.
Cry some more.
Get **** done.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 2:27 PM UTC
we present ourselves as perfect manuscripts
nobody sees the crumpled rough drafts and messy handwriting
scattered around the bedroom carpet at home.
nobody has seen the way i've
scratched out parts of myself
that didn't fit into the high school mold
then the parts that didn't fit into my suitcase when i moved away from home
nobody has seen the revisions i've made
do i sound too formal, am i too quiet, do i need to be a little bit funnier in order to be considered acceptable art?
i've thrown entire scenes of my life into the trash
because i don't want anybody to see them and i am ashamed
i sit for hours staring at blank pages wondering how anyone could ever find me interesting enough to spend time with
do you ever feel that way, too?
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
expression of impressions in sand
revisions of depressions in land
I'm clenching the rope of hopes last strand
i'm grasping intensely as i can
everyone has there own disguise
truth realized through pure eyes
in human blood they wash there hands
You carry your fire and brimstone inside
expression of impressions in sand
revisions of depressions in land
you see the blood on the helping hand
I am longing to find this feeling so grand
I would like to try to read your mind
darkness underneath a smile so kind
a demon behind timid mouse eyes
such reality declined you left behind
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted
Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless
Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble
You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly
Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible
I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion
After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles
After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge
In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel
In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
There are those days best forgotten
In solemn silence all begotten
Comes fear and fire
and all that's rotten
In what seems
suddenly ..to be
my lot in life
Life is lived in cost-conscious revisions
Applied like mud poultices
Upon all daily impositions
Inclined to find
the weakest point
in the structure
Eating at you
in silent observation
Of your salient need for salvation as it ***** your
soul
Into the void
where all lost causes
Seek redemption
For all wasted time unspent
In cost - conscious
Solemn silence
When fear and fire
And all things rotten
Were what should
have been forgotten
Instead of all that
you left
unbegotten
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas, which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its ***** acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.
*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
An Explanation
More lines written in my face than an old women.
More lyrical notes than an instrument of your choice,
I'm dancing inside to the sound of your voice .
Each word and phrase creatively counted,
Carefully picked up and placed,
Lights shining between each elegant phrase.
These words flowing from head to mouth,
Much harder than to paper.
Thoughts are lost in revisions and vapor.
I lose my heart and my voice,
With silly fears I've lost my choice.
Now I've come here with these words to say,
But all my metaphors got in the way.
So I'll say the words that will woo,
a small phrase that I can say,
I love you.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Chaotic systems
Disabled stems
Controlled streams
Dash in seams
Work ain't progress
It's a misused regress
Full of regrets
The greatest dissolution
No vision, just revisions
The mission of bureaucracy
Hypocrisy and autocratic casts
Top cats bumper weighty bonuses
Outclassed in beer bellies
Slashed in pompous waistcoats
*What a waste on the coast?
**I am not afraid to tell you, "I ain't a ******* robot"**
I am not a machine of production and rotations
**I am not afraid to tell you, "Go **** your *****
Give me time to be creative, innovative and autonomous
Chaotic systems
Disabled stems
Controlled streams
Dash in seams
Be an example, model the sample
Let the leader lead the leaders
Let the leader be the servant
An active weaver of the basket
To hold with the strongest straws
In rows and crows, clinging to all
A negotiator of the common people
A facilitator in times of conflict
Let the worker be dedicated
Passionate, triumphant and trial-led
But the case is, all are in it for the money
I am not afraid to tell capitalists, "Give workers their rights"
**I am not a ******* charity mate! Share the faked matte!**
**I am not afraid to tell you, "Stick it up on your ***
Give me time to be creative, innovative and autonomous
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
Losing you is like waking up on your 18th birthday,
And feeling no different than the day before,
Yet knowing that something inside you is taking its course.
Week after week, gradually you become older,
In a way that can't be measured by years.
You mark out your calendar as if keeping record will stop time from driving you mad.
Birthday dinners, doctors appointments, and important obligations
Peak out from under black scribbles and abstract musings.
Moving on is when the page is full and blotted,
And it's time to move to February.
We're fated for that kind of closure, I think.
The past months aren't any less real or poignant now that they've been pushed aside,
But they can't affect me like they once did.
Missed lunch dates and last minute schedule revisions
Don't mean anything less than when they were happening,
But their significance was left, crumpled and blacked out on the face of January.
Stuck in the distant space where past months vanish.
Holding on is when you accidentally write 2012
Instead of 2013, and have to quickly distort the two
Into a three, before anyone has time to notice.
There's no sentiment attached, instead it's a testament of broken routine
And nothing more.
That's how losing you feels.
There's no wilted rose or breaking waves
To symbolize a heartache that's no longer here,
Those sentiments of emotion left along with you
And the cold, indifferent agenda of January.
I tried to fight it off as long as I could,
By pushing you into a corner of my mind,
Almost impossible escape,
Holding fast to the memories we share,
Convincing myself it wasn't over,
That there was still hope,
That I still cared.
I was never afraid of moving on,
Or losing you,
No, I knew that would be inevitable,
Beautiful, almost.
Instead, it was no longer caring that scared me:
My capability to shut off all emotion,
With the switch of a button,
Obliterate all of what we had.
It's too late now, even these words fall flat
Against my self made wall
Of gentle indifference and time.
Soon February will fade to march,
Leaving January buried deeper beneath the fabric of closure.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
Paint by number
your colors
just like everyone else.
But do not color
outside the lines.
There's no place for
extraordinary.
Shove the clay
of yourself
into a mold that
doesn't fit.
But do not dare look
for another one.
There's no place for
individuality.
Write out the story
of your cliché life
just like all the others.
But do not make
any revisions.
There's no room for
originality.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
There is change that is certain.
The earth slowly shifting,
The sky slowly shifting.
Seven billion universes
Rotating around each of us,
Each one of us an axis.
The recurring misalignment,
Collisions, and revisions of
Our orbiting bodies
Shape the illusion of stability
Hanging from our celestial ceiling.
I did not expect to come home
To an empty house,
My family's effects removed
Like the leftovers of an evicted tenant.
I am a stranger here,
In this room where I became a woman.
This room that exalted and imprisoned me
No longer offers solace.
Litter, that upon closer inspection
Reveals a mosaic of my childhood
Is spinning.
The pieces of my past
Are spinning
Out and away,
Gravitating towards a larger body.
The car I drove to a stranger's house
To get ****** instead of going
To dinner with my family
Now belongs to another.
The dresser that kept my underwear
In the top drawer
For twenty years
Discarded and lain in the gutter.
The walls which I painted
The most neon shade of green
In an act of adolescent rebellion
Are now covered over
In rental home white
To attract the widest audience
Of potential tenants.
The floor is slipping out from beneath me,
The ceiling lifting and floating away.
New additions to my orbital debris.
This place,
Disassembled.
Each part
Far more significant than the whole.
This house
Will never again be a home.
If I had stayed,
Would the gravity of my presence
Have been enough to keep it together?
Were any of these parts
Part of my universe in the first place?
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
I was a bruised orange,
That round piece of fruit that had been dropped, over and over again.
Dropped so many times, my insides had turned to sour mash.
(It was a distasteful sort of mush.)
I hid my mushiness behind an exterior of bright orange skin.
(I thought I had fooled everyone but myself.)
He swept into my life, in backward fashion,
Giving himself away to erase the disasters of my wounds.
He was eraser crumbs.
His history, one of being casually swept from the page
As others made their revisions.
Had he not been there?
Life would have dug a hole through my crepe paper heart,
Scraping and scratching
With its hard, unforgiving end.
But he was eraser crumbs;
He slid easily across my page.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
I won't take back the path I took
And I can't change the ground it shook
To face the earthquake of tough decisions
And the natural disaster of life revisions.
Nothing takes the earth apart like looking to the past
To remember the different kinds of love that wouldn't last.
I'd tell you ours was different, but the rubble begs to differ,
Each night I rest in the freezing makes my bones grow stiffer.
We're a dying race.
God is showing us our place.
We aren't all we think we are,
We won't survive without a scar,
But maybe we can climb out of this abyss,
If as a species we remember this:
We respect the rain, as she falls by design,
But neglect the lightning and pretend extinction's fine.
We stand in awe as snow falls asleep on the ground,
Everything's peaceful until we're frozen like the snow all around.
Desensitized to tragedy,
Immune to life and gravity,
Death becomes the living
And apathy keeps giving.
Will we step up, get up, and prove the flesh is wrong,
Or lay down and stay down, to admit that we're not strong?
How could we let hope die in vain,
And, without a fight, return to the dust where we belong?
Life seems well composed, happy and satisfied,
Until we face the wind that blows, and scramble so much to strategize
Just to protect the house we've built,
That stands so proud until the lilies wilt
And prove that all along, there was nothing we could do
To keep the hurricane from killing the righteous few.
Myself not included, there are honest men,
Though we wonder where all our leadership has been.
Now's the time to step up and do what's right,
Our lives may flood, but we won't drown without a fight.
We respect the rain, as she falls by design,
But neglect the lightning and pretend extinction's fine.
We stand in awe as snow falls asleep on the ground,
Everything's peaceful until we're frozen like the snow all around.
Desensitized to tragedy,
Immune to life and gravity,
Death becomes the living
And apathy keeps giving.
Will we step up, get up, and prove the flesh is wrong,
Or lay down and stay down, to admit that we're not strong?
How could we let hope die in vain,
And, without a fight, return to the dust where we belong?
We fight pain and constant pressure until the top explodes,
But we won't give up until we've exhausted all the roads,
Looking for a way out, preferably the best,
But if that fails, we'll make do with any of the rest.
It's hard to see with the ash impairing our sight,
But even in darkness, through fire, we strive for what is right.
The only way to keep the magma from burning through the earth,
Is to show the nature around us what righteousness is worth.
We respect the rain, as she falls by design,
But neglect the lightning and pretend extinction's fine.
We stand in awe as snow falls asleep on the ground,
Everything's peaceful until we're frozen like the snow all around.
Desensitized to tragedy,
Immune to life and gravity,
Death becomes the living
And apathy keeps giving.
Will we step up, get up, and prove the flesh is wrong,
Or lay down and stay down, to admit that we're not strong?
How could we let hope die in vain,
And, without a fight, return to the dust where we belong?
Maybe nature is the trees and all the flowers
Or maybe it's the sum or lack there of of human powers.
You decide what you defend and what you think is true,
Because it's passion and conviction that truly define you.
We respect the rain, as she falls by design,
But neglect the lightning and pretend extinction's fine.
Death becomes the living
And apathy keeps giving.
Will we step up, get up, and prove the flesh is wrong,
Lay down and stay down, to admit that we're not strong?
Or will we, so soon, return to the dust where we belong?
--Emily Rutledge
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
Sometime long ago I cast my lot
On to that spot where I no longer exist
But I couldn't resist because
Though I be not an existing entity
Occupying there ...where
I once stood long
Long enough to realize
It wasn't where I belong
It was my spot until that thought
Crept up like a silent non tail wagging
Non growl bragging... Watchdog
to bite me on my *** and send me scurrying on my way
With a pain to remember what never existed
Except for maybe those fleeting moments when I resisted change
Strange
How comfortable can become
That place you never were
Able to say you came from
Somehow it feels better
Than to speak truth to letter
And to spell out the words
I don't belong
Anywhere along
That road where I had become so weak
As I Stumble down and all around
Revisions... Decisions
Where I hum the tune
That has become my song
That place I didn't belong
That place I didn't belong that made me strong!
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
maturely premature thoughts preexist inside
waiting to explode and marvel
at the symmetry of our meetings,
asymmetrical
incongruities.
unthought veils bearing everything
mysterious. magic rarely happens
when eyes open slowly for the
first time. life hatefully
spiteful, vengefully
insipid, unknowing
uncaring,
who cares, time
lost,
repent,
recant,
re-imagined revisions,
systems breaking human
conditions, connections. see
past the humanity,
inanity and insanity are deliberate
malfunctions- there is beauty
inside every action, movement, and
word.
torrents of half thought forms cascade
over fickle answers,
responses to help your quest. yet
in the same ****** breath you say
‘you’ve thought too much;
imagined
enough-
excuses are all
you need’ while
i cry to you in silence,
you’re missing the beat, the
form, the aspect and motivation
of the intellect that you
so silently yearn
for in your verbal
abuses.
this will only get you so far before
you see as i see
or not at all
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 3:45 PM UTC
Pre disposed dispositions
Lying scared beneath revisions
Frantic follows death and sorrow
Living free is a dream we borrow
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
children should be seen
but not heard
have you ever
listened to something so absurd
how can we take away
their freedom to speak up
to grow up as adults
so they can be confident
taking away or stiffling
this precious souls voice
is an unconscious decision
and gives them no choice
no choice to learn
from making their own decision
to adjust their course
to practice in revisions
what a world this will be
when we all learn to speak our own truth
respecting each others beingness
and being connected to our roots
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 7:21 AM UTC
She have created a world,
that she did not know.
have appointed a pawn,
to build it for her.
Waited until it's done,
never ever sat on it.
No worries and second thoughts,
trusted on her mighty wits
thought this was good,
Will make her the master.
To go with the trends,
of this fast phased ambience.
Did not care on the work,
Showed a little effort.
while the poor pawn,
was proving his humble worth.
stayed late,
worked overtime.
to polish the demands
of the demanding divine.
while Time had flee,
the so-called universe was done,
completed the systems,
of holy progress crowned.
Yes! she was overwhelmed,
without knowing the details,
as she takes the merit,
the deed and the title.
Not until a flaw,
was shown and highlighted,
because of her ill leadership,
issues have ignited.
why and why,
are the repeating questions,
all thrown to the poor pawn,
gazillion revisions.
Yes she knows why,
but she never cared.
you can't approach and talk,
but the mood was always there.
All the issues,
resulted from the unobserved.
Scattered around,
up down onboard.
And you can see,
the blame is always there,
for the incomplete universe,
she want's to give and share.
as she pushes the pawn,
off the high cliff,
with spikes and swords,
sinking quicksand beneath.
as the Queen wants it,
the fame and popularity,
easily shifts mood,
cannot adjust to scarcity.
As she blames it,
to the skilled pawn,
turns to her scapegoat,
to protect her own
to misguide and uplift,
one's own selves.
to project a good image,
and please the elves.
as she was pressured,
by his lord King,
yes! she's pressured,
without a wink.
and she had slaved the kingdom,
for a long long time,
oh darkness ruled,
as she drinks her wine.
Until the pawn had chance,
to gather alliance,
break free from slavery,
come and hear the mob's chant.
Until they realized,
that they are abused,
given a title,
that is always misused.
Until the pawn reacts,
had the ultimate break.
saw an opening,
and it's zap, it's checkmate .
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 5:37 AM UTC
there's a man on a chair in top of a tower
and he sits and he waits as the bricks turn to powder
and he's waiting for a time when its safe to come down
his life and his mind resonates with the sound
of the people blasted people with there hate and there fear
telling him the his brilliance is the devils ways quite clear
and they chase him and they tell him that he'll never get away
but he's hiding in the tower and he needs to find a way
and the chalk on the floor from the equations wiped in vain
make a circle round the tower and it keeps the crowed at bay
so he works to find a meaning and he needs another wake
but the message is priori and the morel is at stake
so he toils on the formula to silence sin and saint
he must prove that there is nothing so that he can see the fate
and as he does the sounds of screaming up and deafen to a raise
and he proves the world is nothing but wave in mind of sage
and he makes a few revisions to the book and sines the page
it was done and he concluded that the world will cleanse in blaze
and proclaims let there be light and then book burns in to place
and to find out what's in side it is the challenge that we face
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 7:37 PM UTC
You cover my skin in red paint
Each time you scream my name.
They paint my skin green
whilst they mock me.
He throws handfuls of black
On my back for each blow, he ever gave me.
My body is no longer my own canvas,
Society chose to paint over my masterpiece.
At the end of the day, looking in the mirror
I pity the stranger who stares back at me.
The paint won't come off no matter how hard I scrub.
Digging under the paint and tearing skin with it to make my body my own again.
The blood.
It creeps down my skin and drips onto the floor.
What a beautiful shade of red.
It's not like the fiery red of anger but like a freshly cut rose or an unearthed ruby.
This is the color that has been hiding beneath me.
Beneath the facades and the frills of society.
My body is burning from the revisions and my mind is racing with my own potential. This will be a lovely new addition to this canvas.
The pain is worth it.
Society must see the beauty hidden beneath.
Feb 7, 2024
Feb 7, 2024 at 3:52 AM UTC
When a poet doesn't know the answer
To the simplest questions
It's because their mind is so filled
With abnormal poetic revisions
When a poet doesn't know
The way to say how they feel
It's because they need to write it out
So they know the feelings are real
When a poet doesn't know
How to say I love you
It's because they haven't found a rhyme
That brings out the best in you
When a poet doesn't know what to say
Or simply how to make you feel better
They just type up some lines and rhymes
Like... "We'll get through this together"
When a poets doesn't know the answer
Or how to say what they feel
Or that they're in love with you
Or how to make you feel better still
And they don't have the words to write it all down....
That poet's world is sure to crumble to the ground
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
I am falling for your lips and they don't know me yet
You layed me down at the sinking edge of receeding night
Sweat washed off the forehead of memory dame
Of reversions divisions revisions of appaling tales
Going under dunes, falling in spin of burning times
Revert on her knees bleed at your glorious feet
In the gaze in the haze of inconsistencies you retreat
Tied in holy suffering of sacred pain my existence crucified
Holding king death in embrace of countless lifetimes
Lingering darkness breathed shadows that flashes on
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
perhaps the moth
simply doesn't know
the strength of
its own wings
but the way it flutters
seemingly erratic
in its choices
never straight forward
in its direction
can be infuriating at times
as those silken sails
appear to force it
where none expect it to be
in disjointed circles
often far off course
only occasionally
will it find itself
exactly where it should be
whether accidentally
or by design
its every path is filled
with calculated corrections
revisions and redress
in order to reach
its intended
that source of light
one way or another
Sep 11, 2023
Sep 11, 2023 at 6:25 PM UTC