"roadblock" poems
The shy thing
It's like a double edged sword
I mean yeah it's cute
At times
But it keeps things from happening
How do you get past the unnerving moments
When you want to manifest your feelings
In outward actions
Because no one can see into your mind
Unless you bring your mind to them
But the shyness is like a roadblock
So treat it as such
And break through it
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
Stay up late and write
I'm the freedom writer
Everyday it gets easy to say
Everything you wish you could
You think it's coldhearted
but needed to be said
I keep you away out of my head
I don't get close that's my only choice
Writing has become my voice
I show respect treated like a reject
Went my way because of detours
Crossing paths another roadblock
This time not giving up my way
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
Don’t put me in a group and expect me to talk
Be careful with your questions or you’ll meet a roadblock
Ask me about my feelings and out the door I will walk
This is who I am
Despite my reluctance to deep conversation
Talking can sometimes be my great salvation
My inability to talk just brings me more and more frustration
This is who I am
If asked what I need I’d probably just shrug
Although you should know that I just want a hug
Just tell me that you love me and hold me snug
This is who I am
The rest of the time I seem as if I’m all smiles
I leave everything to clutter my brain in big piles
Then I put up a facade so no one can guess at my trials
This is who I am
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
i still feel like my purpose is higher
than what i’m living now.
i’m supposed to be swinging in the breeze,
reflecting time,
changing perspectives as a bird,
living in anemones.
how is that i have turned into a secondary color?
i’m more of a roadblock to human life,
my cycle is to serve, support, and help move on. be a learning experience, to help one grow.
i think my soul was put into the wrong vessel,
maybe i was supposed to be a tree (as my name suggests)
or a bird or fish.
or maybe something much more discreet like branches on a tree, or myelin from a mushroom (to help connect).
that’s me: in time, in reality, in relativity. in the womb, out the womb. i’m supposed to be woven into nature and out of sight, not supposed to be heard, behind the scene, hushed stage crew.
but then you try and take me and make me the star of your scene.
maybe that’s where i’m supposed to be, in space, in a star, or maybe a star. to burn out after years, and bloom again (like a flower, since stars and flowers and us are very alike.)
yeah that’s all i am, shades of colors and soft dust. star dust. distant yet so close.
if you love me and hold me, i’ll be okay if you leave me. for i am not supposed to be here.
I’m supposed to limpid, colorful, and skyey;
die in winter, born in spring.
That is supposed to be me (for eternity).
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
In my neighborhood
Your hedge presses against my hedge
In my dreams
Your leg presses against my leg
In my neighborhood
People hate me
In your mind
You overrate me
In my neighborhood
****** burns the sorrow
With you
There's always tomorrow
Neighbors are the worst
They unquench
Labors of thirst
They're also the best
When it comes to people
They're the rest
If you could do me a favor
And not be my neighbor
I need you in my house
You're stuck in my head
You're my louse
Then the neighbors foreclosed my home
Morphing me into the roaming gnome
Does a homeless man have neighbors?
Like a wild dog
With no bone to savor?
It just breaks my heart
When people run each other off the road
With their hate filled cart
In my mind the roadblock is your face
Through the window I see the hate
We'll use my roadblock to erase
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
for Jeannie Kristufek Hawrysz who once quoted me Shakespeare -
*"Of all the words in the universe, when stated thrice, only one royal above all gleams best, an uncoded mathematical tripartite repetitive stating:
love love love this."*
----------------------------
third attempt and just not happening
then recall a Ben Folds hand-me-down
heard on Tuesday, passed onto me by Sara B.
about writer’s block
“Kick the editor out of the room”
the best don’t even flow,
they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that,
are ya keeping up,
you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection roadblock
or the delivery guy, the one with the towel and the scissors, who brings ya a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?
another nougat nugget:
when you’re stuck, write about the block,
what’s sticking you; one would have thought
some one thousand five hundred poems later,
this one would have been midwifed a long, long time ago,
but at 4:32am, it’s all I got
rather than throw false news confetti on myself
from the rafters that don’t exist in a citified apartment,
I’ll reward myself with some
rock n’ pop,
a revisitation to the scene of the crime, and listen quiet like and maybe leak back to prone sleep,
in hopes that the rest of the gang,
hoping the words to a poem-in-transit,
“confetti is just tomorrow’s garbage”
gets off at my dreamy new subway stop
should the wordy birdies shotgun come sneaking in
thru the correct ear
i.e. not the sunken pillow one,
so I have half a fat chance of
recalling its dimensions in an hour,
when I wake up-officially,
fat chance
later, like 4:56am
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2471979/confetti-is-just-tomorrows-garbage/
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 5:03 AM UTC
You won't have small problems
If you've got big dreams
There'll always be a roadblock
something pulling the loose strings
No one said it'd be easy
To achieve such a thing
But when you have plans
You always preserve
And succeed
You don't let the things
That are thrown at you leave a mark
You always take a swing
To knock them out of the ballpark
Right from the beginning
Right from the start
You fought for what you wanted
Gave it all your heart
It may seem like your getting no where soon
But add this to your smarts
A large fire always begins with a spark
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
I thought I had buried the pain beneath
the clouds, half-naked and floating,
a terrible vibration exploding into
immense hurricanes, savage knifed
thoughts drowning my flesh, saw
gashed, whip slashed, a ragged beaten
roadblock falling in drunken depths.
I could feel the cold splintering blade
slicing my neck, a suicidal slain beat
filled with swelling flames, crazy
unchanging borders broken, hammered,
shoved, a damaged ocean bleeding
in strangled waves.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
*the best don’t even flow, they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that, are ya keeping up, rumbling:
you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection roadblock
or the delivery guy,
the one with the towel and the scissors,
who brings ya
a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?*
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
You know the famous saying
All good things come to an end
This applies to weekends as well
Or in this case, Sundays
Because I was forced to work yesterday
Due to a massive project
Which will keep me occupied
For a good three weeks
Including two Saturdays
Hence, all the more reason
To positively dread the start of tomorrow
Ah yes, the infamous Monday
Something that terrifies me
More than climbing Mount Everest
Or entering a lion's den
Or earning the wrath of a cobra
I can go on and on
But I think I've made my point
Yes, Mondays are bad
Especially if you've enjoyed the weekend
As much as I did
Notwithstanding working on Saturday
So, do you want to know
What makes tomorrow twice as bad
As any other Monday?
Firstly, as mentioned earlier
I am working on a big project
Probably my biggest in the last three years
Secondly, while the going has been smooth so far
Things are going to get tricky
So far, all I have accomplished
Is pure research
But now, I'll have to start calling people
And these are not recruitment calls
Which are relatively straightforward
On the other hand
I am entering pure sales territory
Which may not be a big deal
For most "normal" people
But for someone who is autistic
It is a different ballgame altogether
In fact, it is like steering a ship
Through the Bermuda Triangle
And finally
The biggest roadblock
In my long and treacherous path
Is not the candidates
Not even the client
But my accursed laptop
Whose ability to perform under pressure
Is even less than that of South Africa
In a global cricket tournament
Feb 20, 2022
Feb 20, 2022 at 11:58 AM UTC
4am sunday morning they broke into song
unable to contain their smiles
they cast aside the spent wine
and took their ribald song to the streets
with a fanfare of sound and light
like jesters of old
they painted smiles on the frowning old men
and placed rainbows over the bridges between
the carpets of the mighty and the halls of fable
by 5am they had made it all
the way in to the center of town
where a roadblock of uniforms thought to make sense
out of tealeaves and mint cookies
as the jesters just dance around their confusions
between their orders and
what the truth of the heart tells em is the song
and then we see the ugly show a pretty eye to the cause
as it marches in through the double dawn
one dawn for the sun
the other for the hearts of the lonely
and a secret one for me and her
in our lounge chairs by the top of the spike hill
kissing our sweet hearts to eachother
by 10am all but the most die-hard had fallen to dreaming sweetly
neath the juniper trees
while thouse few who clung to awakened hearts
sang softly and sweetly
of summer nights and fresh loves
unearthed from the ashes of the desperate pasts
all things made anew from all the things made old
by sunday evening
we had all danced all the dances
and kissed all the kisses till even the heat of passion couldn't fade
held eachothers hands
and smiled sweetly like memory's saying fare thee well till morrow
i would be crazy if it weren't for your hand in mine
here in the tropical sundown
sunday night so deep
and the only one left dancing is old harold
he's doing the charleston with the moon's echo on the waves of the sea
don't think he's ever been so happy
and as i drift off to sleep
with her in my arms
i know that i don't need to explain to anyone
that we are all jesters looking for a
song to dance to at 4am in the tropics
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
Old beaten path, bent backward on its axis acting like a scientific textbook projection map.
Becoming something impossible to traverse even for expert woodsmen or a genius of a certain variety that is imbued with Zoom Zoom PED's, just enough red wine, or some self appointed enlightenment that "never failed me before"
Ignoring all traces of anxiety, disregarding inhibition, conquering every whim and mental roadblock desperately vying for success and representation as SOMEone instead of everyone else who writes in blue ink and drinks their coffee black and hides in plain sight and doesnt care what other people think and watches primetime reality television programs and believes in Jesus Christ and chews with their mouths closed and keeps their finges clean.
The Path
remains forever unbeaten
how far we get along it is our legacy that no one ever gave a **** about until we wrote about it.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
In the journey of finding myself
I found you
in my path
Im not sure if you were a roadblock,
just a bump in the road to surpass,
Or if we were meant to intersect.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 5:03 AM UTC
I long for a means coalesce like particulates in suspension and not coagulate.
Into a monstrous scab.
I hate to make cheloid tissue of this deadly grouping.
Id **** to be whole by finding a pairing.
The obstruction to human progression,
The roadblock of progress,
We are merely all platelets in this wound.
These free thinkers are the only.
Thing. Holding in all of the blood of the truth in man's march.
The moon was the beginning the end is the sun.
To a fusion of the atom,
And the birth of our flux.
To the birth of our achievement,
When we let loose the wound.
When the inside has healed and we aren’t bandaging the fumes,
Of a gaseous existence to penetrate everyone’s lungs,
With the stillness of thinking and the spirit of calm.
Currently.
We wait in the basement.
Sitting for our,
Plan.
To strike.
We will strike the match that flames the fumes of human resistance and build a castle of knowledge, hope, science, and destroy the sinkholes for progress.
The things that deplete our resources,
And the fire in our eyes will stab into every bastilles walls.
Of evil.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
when I reached the age of reason I hit the ground,
running. the thought flits
across compact mirror smudged from years of overuse &
abandon, left behind
in purse bottoms and backpacks every time I switch up my style &
move on to something:
new/ fresh / else.
a glance into glass &
I'm transported: a babe on white lambskin,
a second-hand nostalgia never wholly mine.
a missing, another memory removed,
a down-to-the-wire tally
added to the roster, unexpectedly
the emotional prodigy, ostracized
alongside destined veracity: as in my absolute
devotion to TRUTH!
the time skip, a box-out, a blackout, a kindness.
a comfort over the desk chair where homework completes itself
after countless 'mixtape playlists' limewired maniacally
alphabetized, rearranged & revised until dawn/
another decade / chapter: a bookworm,
a blockout, a maneuver 'round roadblock,
a machination, a manipulation, a deadening, a defeat,
an assistant Mother only a child
self, the intrigue... yet
here I am, a spectacle,
a miracle, a smashing, a light on an island out at sea,
an accident, a ripening survived.
can I trust myself. to dive in. for / by myself?
when I lift the stretch of lambskin from an atticked brown box,
a painted porcelain plate hits the ground,
shattered.
Jul 28, 2022
Jul 28, 2022 at 9:07 PM UTC
As I walked this road of life
I came across you
Moving back is not an option
Moving forward means breaking you down
And so I was left with the question
Are you a roadblock to my life?
or
Are you my final destination?
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
Who am I?
Am I a bird or a plane?
No.. I'm Superman!
considers gender
Okay, Lois Lane..
Am I a roadblock in your way?
Or a lucky penny in a well
A grain of sand in your shoe
That great story you tell
A song for the broken
Face of innocence,
Head of dreams
Am I young and sweet only seventee-
considers age
Okay, just turned 18^
Am I happy am I sad
Am I the best you everr had
A lyric to sing again and again
When lost in a tunnel,
The light at the end
Am I over confident
Do I believe in the possible
Am i an actress for putting on a show throughout this entire poem
Dramatic maybe?
Yes, dramatic but harmless
An artist I guess.. A star left in darkness?
Am I worthy of romance?
God I need to know..
When you go through life being kissed by beasts and frogs,
You eventually believe you'll never be someone's rose.
Am I wrong Am I right,
Who knows?
& Am I as okay as I say I am?
....* Curtains close *
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Shreds us the life
With bruises and cuts
Our days run rife
In the ifs and buts!
If the day was bright
If hadn’t fallen rain
If quickly passed the night
If living was no pain!
But the day was a mess
But the winds blew harsh
But time was hard pressed
But cloud hid the stars!
If happened how we need
If they all smoothly clicked
If luck came with speed
If clock slowly ticked!
But things ran amok
But nothing went right
But faced a roadblock
But fortune took flight!
Tear us apart the ifs and buts
Do steal away all happiness
Wound our life with bruises and cuts
Alas for them we have no redress!
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 5:55 AM UTC
I know I'm not enough.
I promise, I know. So please,
I'm begging you,
stop reminding me.
I promise, I never forget.
But sometimes I get tired of
being sad, being upset.
I start to hold myself higher,
I let myself get past that roadblock.
But then you drop it suddenly atop me,
and I'm left further down the track than
I ever was before.
I know I'm not enough.
How many times will you remind me?
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
I mean, it's kinda funny
The punishment for life is the death penalty, that's literally the only true guarantee
Alterations void the warranty and there's no return policy, which I guess if fine honestly
But you can only rotate the tires so many times before it no longer matters
A crash will become eminent and just like the windshield, your future also shatters
No one's looking for a clock with a erratic tick and a broken tock
A polished **** advertised with a tiny sign as a shiny rock
Occasionally found screaming at nothing as frustration fills the body and muddies the mind
A full breakdown, stuck behind a roadblock, this time one of your own design
Trained by history to take every word heard with a pinch of salt
Cold and bitter, but is it by default?
Is it truly all my fault?
...why was I in such a hurry to be an adult...?
I'm gonna go make a fort and sort this all out
©2024
Mar 1, 2024
Mar 1, 2024 at 8:17 PM UTC
It is not always easy to express one's self
When his artistic creations are never placed in galleries
They are often forgotten of
Sitting there gathering dust on a storage shelf.
It seems as if ten more people are at the same task
As which you create with
Comparing their outcomes to your own
Your light of hope fails to light
Due to many missing you that must express
such visions
A dog starved to the bone.
Eyes meet the other exhibits
As your kiosk is primarily never sought for business
The confidence of challenge is there, however, it soon melts away
When all of the hard work which you have placed
in expressions for the world to see
Fade to darkness like the "dark side of the moon"
As night simply ends the days.
Questions remain about what you are truly "gifted"
at or "ahead" of other game pieces on the board game of life.
When so many are inventive such as you
One too many is a crowd.
You pull down a fake smile. A fake shrowd.
Now the net is neutral
Damaging my once vibrant flow
As my hands are now tied to how I can grow
The rules of the game are now many and harder to get around
Like a roadblock in your sight of your future
The air begins to become too thin and your mind weighs heavy
As the cut in your creative inventiveness
Bleeds too heavy and needs a "miraculous" suture.
Needing others on my team
Every time I seek out such
I'm the "driver x" at the "speed races"
and the "forced gun" to bear uninspiring
and lonely expressive paces.
Is their justice to the laws limiting one's freedom of expression
just to protect those in the "top few?"
When the own half of the platform on which you try and "compete"
However, you are too small to be seen as "you."
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 4:12 AM UTC
I’ve got buzzing in my feet
cause of this new pair of shoes
and I’m feeling pretty sweet
like there’s nothing to lose.
They’ve got thick rubber soles
and bright white laces
The kind to take a stroll
with deep wide paces.
My bright yellow pair of sneakers
I wonder how they look
Or if I seem too eager
Or if I’ll be mistook.
They make me grin so wide
I feel unrecognizable
My heart so full of pride,
My smile’s undeniable.
I can’t help but feel neat
when I squeak against the sidewalk
or when I saunter down the street
and meander round a roadblock.
I’ve got buzzing in my feet
cause of this new pair of shoes
and I’m feeling pretty sweet
like there’s nothing to lose.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
You craved for the Big Answer long ago,
among the cooling ember of your creed,
as hesitance, the ever growing seed
took root inside and never let you go.
You searched for Higher Knowledge far and wide;
Above the angled soaring of the dove,
Beyond the misty harbors down the cove,
And through the fickle swaying of the tide.
You’ll long for that Enlightenment till the end:
One morning, as you look upon the past
in fear that your next breath is the last,
you'll wonder if that time was yours to spend;
Or fate was just a roadblock to avoid
as every veil you lifted turned out void.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 12:30 PM UTC