"rummaging" poems
How wonderfully mysterious the life is
A beautiful architecture,a puzzle,a bliss
I am a composer trying to write his song
But half of me is missing,
Surrounded by the crowd i still feel alone
I feel incomplete,my melody is scarce
I am drowning into notes to which i divorce
My other half...
I wish i knew how she looks like,
I wish i knew where her presence resides
But my soul is still rummaging...
It remains just the desire that deep inside me hides
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
My neighbour is heartbroken.
She had her heart torn into pieces by a poet,a writer, a painter and a singer.
Her silent cries are thought to be hidden through her thick walls.
But I hear them.
She spends her nights screaming and rummaging the pain silently away.
But loud enough for me.
I hear her sharp razor tickle through her skin creating a flawless crisscross pattern.
I see the blood explode from her vein running down her no longer smooth skin dripping on the tiles forming a puddle.
I hear the loud crack from her throat that shows me the tears that desperately escapes from her eyes,running down her cheeks searching for a way out.
She covers her mouth,closes her eyes and huddles, hoping she's tricking her heart to believe she's being cuddled,
But her mind and I know what's real.
Her blood's escaping vigorously,
Her hearts beating ferociously,
Her mind is wandering off into darkness tremendously.
My neighbour is heartbroken and I don't know what to do.
I cannot save her.
She believes that I am like him.
Because I am a poet.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
Everyday I lose pieces of myself.
Looking back to a couple of days ago,
I found myself lost in the "whys"
Of my previous love
Or was it just a fling?
Like: "why wasn't I enough?"
"why did you stop answering my messages?"
"Why didn't we work?"
and "why can't I move on?"
Like "why am I still hypnotised to the sound your footsteps made
The last time you walked by?"
And "why, why the hell does this feel like I'm singing the same old song?"
"Why doesn't this feel new?"
Looking back to a couple months ago
I found myself rummaging through the remains of your mind
Trying to decipher the meaning behind everything you do.
Why one minute you love me and the next you don't.
Why one minute you're a book,
Free to open and to read
And the next, you're a closed door,
With a lost key.
I keep losing myself.
I lost pieces of myself in you
I should be used to this
But the thing is,
I had hoped to find myself in you.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
I've been searching these deserts
I've been rummaging through my closet
I've been eating more than usual
I've been spontaneously bursting into laughter
I've been attentive
I've been regularly missing taking my anti-depressants
I've been crying hard all at once (expectedly)
I've been very extremely me
This is okay - this is okay
Thank you life
I'm okay.
I'm at this airport and it's like a chorus
The people go up the ramps
Fly away for 3 days like Horus
The returner's come home now
Waiting families embrace them with love
Jumbo jets zoom outside these giant windows
Visitors, excitedly saunter
Into this new and open place...
And this is okay
Thank you, thank you airport
I'm okay.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
I have hands that won’t keep
to themselves.
They are always rummaging
and dancing and clapping
and snapping and opening
and closing and trying to fix
every
single
broken thing they can find.
And that includes you.
My heart is a bottomless pit for aches.
Not mine, but yours.
It’s almost a cursed thing, how
despite its size being only that of my fist,
my heart always finds a way to squeeze in
some new hurt into the spaces that
before you,
I never knew existed.
There they stay;
and like all things that stay,
with enough time,
become part of their surroundings.
I can’t tell whose cut is whose anymore.
Put me in a room full of people.
Blindfold me.
Spin me like a tornado.
Make me stop.
My outstretched fingers will be reaching
for the most broken souls in the room.
Call it compassion. Kindness. Empathy.
Whatever you like,
but there is a fine, fine line between that
and the way I bleed.
Oh,
how I bleed.
Forgive my boldness when I say
I won’t even try to make you understand
the fact that I do
somehow
understand.
Think of it this way: ripples.
And I always get the last one.
I’m still a child.
I like to play pretend.
I’m a doctor.
I’m a superhero.
I’m the one with all the answers,
all the weapons,
all the magical cures.
Take that!
And that!
Ha! Aha! Ha!
Ha…
Ha.
As the years wear on,
I see that my tools aren’t right,
and that my cape is too tight around my neck.
I don’t have all the answers.
No weapons.
No magical cures.
I’m just a girl trying to play the part that was never hers.
And it’s taken me three volcano boys,
a couple of glass-bottomed hearted girls,
and just about the rest of the world to realize that I
am not
the Savior.
My hands were not made to heal
every heart they rest themselves upon,
or to fill that vacuum inside every man,
one that nothing,
nothing,
nothing in this world will ever
make
whole.
So here.
I let go of every burden that’s been
causing me to stoop and to stumble,
every pressing weight that’s been
keeping me from keeping faith,
every heavy yoke that’s been
causing me to choke on things
I never should have let in
in the first place.
Yet I will continue to love you.
I have come to learn that love
has a lot of ugly before it becomes beautiful,
a lot of hurt before healing’s arrival,
a lot of you before any of me.
My part is done.
These fidgety fingers no longer carry suffering.
Here, let me see yours, though battle scarred and bruised.
You’ve been bearing more than you were built for, beloved.
I think it’s time to surrender.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Is it my body you wish to plant
Your flag & lay claim to
Looking for buried treasure
Hoping to unearth riches
Beyond your wildest imagination
Trying to discover what men before
You have failed to possess
Rummaging through what used
To be a Holy Temple
A place of innocence
Unfortunately,those men before you
Stole every ounce of that
There is nothing left of me here...
I Am But A Hollow Shell
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC
The psychics were breathing smoke,
rummaging through my roommates collection of abstract art,
they told me what my favorite Modest Mouse album was,
they told me about my personality,
I told them I was a psychic,
they told me to **** off.
Everyone assumes an original identity
in the self-inflicted apocalypse
provided by that old friend, alcohol.
Kevin was the smooth-talking,
drink-mixing extraordinaire.
Kara was the cynic.
Shawna was the kindhearted.
Evan was sober.
Tyler was in and out.
I was the ******* that took a party pill,
bounced off everyone with a handshake
and an apology.
We **** ourselves to resurrect,
piece together the discordance,
the chaos,
the girls.
While the psychics were breathing smoke,
while Kevin was collapsing,
while everyone was worried about me,
all I could say was,
"This is the happiest night of my life,
and that depresses the hell outta' me."
I longed for the sirens in the distance,
I took another drink,
I longed for renewed innocence,
I took another drink,
I longed for someone to lay beside me,
I took another drink,
it was finally enough.
I took off my shirt,
made war with the remnants of stability,
of sanity,
told my friends I loved them,
and hoped that my time ended in sync
with the sunrise.
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC
To write a poem is a treasure hunt.
Diving deep into the depths of your soul,
searching through your minds twisted alleyways.
Rummaging among flotsam and jetsam,
for that one pure gem that outshines the rest,
that starts out as a diamond in the rough.
Poetry is akin to opening a chest.
Spilling the jewels to flow over the page.
Each reveal, the precious stones take on life.
Mingling and coalescing into a crown
to be worn with pride and majestic joy.
Kaleidoscopic endeavor,
offers up a piece of yourself, you share.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 6:02 PM UTC
body in a rage
blood bubbles rummaging
horns begin to make an entertrance
howls of shrieking agony
veins shattering
with pupils dilated and saliva trailing down my crimson stained lips
your best bet is to run.
get the **** away from me.
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 12:45 PM UTC
Blinded by a setting sun,
8pm on a summer night,
You say to me,
"My, my, look into those eyes."
Looking back at you is the sun,
His eyes are deep down brown.
Why won't you leave?
I'm begging, please.
Blinded by a marital dream,
Don't see the harm we receive.
Spend the midnight hours,
Rummaging through the old,
You say now,
"I could be free. Maybe one day I will be."
Looking down upon you is...
Wretched hands that don't believe,
Who am I to speak,
Except I'm the one who felt it,
Searing. Burning. Cutting flesh.
To the bone. Through the marrow.
Screaming till the throat is ******
I know who I am but I'm not real,
An imaginary character to the sun.
Did I wrap the moon around my..
broken and bruised finger?
Why won't you leave?
I'm begging, please.
Blinded by a marital dream,
Don't see the harm you receive.
Feb 21, 2022
Feb 21, 2022 at 3:56 PM UTC
Bamboo shoots, cooked in oil,
we munched were delicious. The tender love,
we shared, in our sojourn, in the lodge
deep inside the forest, had complemented it.
She was a playful tigress, transformed
by the atmosphere, with a manifested ****** interest,
different from her usual demure self.
One thing led to another, we fed each other,
heady vintage wine, from our mouths,
till we found out, in such circumstances,
love would make us do things,
we never imagined we could.
The sketch she made depicting us,
as two wild elephants, in musth*
rummaging the bamboo grove,
eating shoots to our fill,
reminded *Shiva and Parvathi, his consort,
taking the form of elephants
indulging in every possible play amorous,
culminating in the birth of Ganesha,
the cute God, elephant faced,
the remover of obstacles.
Love drunk the song we both sung,
was one of innocence.
The booming wind in bamboo leaves,
suddenly changed tune, sounding like ankle bells.
Dense, dark, green womb of forest
and the flow of wind above, like a blood stream,
kindled the prenatal memories, from deep down,
and as the background score,
cacophony of unknown birds of many feathers.
We swam in the lukewarm water,
of a day so different, with joyous abandon.
A voice mysterious, spoke in my blood stream:
"Be like birds, wind on bamboo grove, elephants seeking what they want,
the love you share would bring, fantastic results,
the world, would look far more simple,
life and death cease to be riddles, just natural,
shadows vanish, no fear remains in deep caves,
everything gently flows, like a clear river to the ocean"
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
I’m not entirely sure what you’re looking for
And I’m sorry if I don’t fit into the wardrobe you picked out
I tried cutting off my arms to fit into the straightjacket better
But it hurt too much
And I wasn’t willing to give up so many things
Just to be with you
I suppose I shouldn’t ask you to cut out your heart to fit into my hand better
I shouldn’t ask for things like that
The only polite things to ask are simpler than that
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“May I sit down?”
Yes
I don’t talk out of turn anymore
Because last time that happened I was a stranger
A thief rummaging through your things at 3 in the morning
And you shattered all of my intentions with that blunt baseball bat
I’m still not sure you recognized me
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
The dog buried it in the garden, in one of
Its many holes, it was a dog of course
Just not the normal dog,
No skin,
No fluff,
No idea?
Where it buried this which I needed,
Which I owned,
It was like a mole had been playing whacker
And dug up
50 mounds,
50 holes,
50 buried
But which was that which I needed to hold,
My hands waved too and froe,
I would talk but my anger muffled
Not expressing my contempt but with a finger
Waving as my hands in a naughty silent
Window wiper motion,
"Bad dog"
"Bad boy"
"Bad reception"
A voice unheard,
"OK"
Right now I have a worm playing
Hide go seek in my cavity's, it tickles
My sockets, curls up in my nose,
Sticks you know what daddy will do,
And the last time this happened,
What did daddy do??
Legs in the bathroom,
Ribs keeping open the kitchen door,
And your skull was left outside in the cold,
"With a grumble"
"With a growl"
"With relief"
I saw the light,* and my body walked over,
My bony fingers rummaging around
Left a little,
Right a little,
Are you blind
And with that like a touch down,
My skull was finally found,
I rubbed the mud off
I took the worm from my nose,
I sat him on my rib, he had found a new home.
"Now boy"
"I know you like to bury"
"But daddies bones are a no go"
I give him a cuddle, stroked his bony head,
"What's skeleton to do"
When his dog likes to bury bones,
Last week he buried his tail, in one of those fifty holes,
And its still waggling, wiggling as we speak buried in a hole.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
At night I hear them
Tiny footsteps
Sneaky little feet running around my head
The creatures they belong to
Biting on my brain cells and
Rummaging around my memories like
They're trinket hunting in a dusty old attic and
Pulling out the most repulsive, musty things they can find,
The things I hid in boxes, embarrassed about,
Old snapshots of a past I’d rather not remember
But they always creep back out of there come family reunions.
These sneaky little creatures that bite on the back of my brain
Cackle over my most mortifying trinkets,
The kind that I try to give away but the thrift stores won’t take them
And I’d be too humiliated to sell them directly
Because that would mean I’d have to share the fact that I had them
When the fact of the matter is that I’m walking in the snow
And trying to cover up my footprints
With an evergreen branch
That does nothing but leave bigger, clearer marks on
The cold white unforgiving ground
And makes the marks more visible
But less obviously mine.
And the sneaky little creatures don’t like this,
Because it’s taking away from the treasures they keep
Up in my attic with the moth-eaten shawls
And dusty old rocking chair stashed in the corner.
They love the old, repulsive musty things
That I don’t want and cannot give away,
And so they make me look them over and over
And shove the hideous things into my face
Dissolving my sense of self as easily as
Salt into water
And gradually changing my taste buds
From honey to brine
As I wonder
Why, why, why
And the sneaky little feet that run around my head
Turn heavy, as if clad in iron boots
And every little trinket that they share
Makes them less and less easy to ignore.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
at the corner I hit both crosswalk buttons
and wait, eyes closed, to see if I can follow
the walk sign chirps like the blind men
I choose the first street that whistles to me
and walk to the opposite corner
the way the lights rotate, you would walk circles
if you followed the signs
eventually you must choose some arbitrary avenue
and either wait for it to welcome you
or test your luck in traffic
I choose left
then look up, hoping
to invent some new constellation
but the big parking lot halogens
bleed like blue inked milk into the sky
and the stars are specks, painted over
maybe for the better, I know too well
that I would see those galaxies spiraling
and dig dig dig into big big big questions
hitting all the major points
time and space and self and purpose,
purpose
and the mental ************ would be
a million endless tangents like a million little bits of magnesium
flashing in a firework, brighter than those parking lot halogens
but like every independence day
they flash and fizzle and then the sky is just smoky
and I start to feel small
so I walk into Big Lots to calm down
rummaging through the shelves,
not a single pad of paper outside of monthly planners
not a single blank sheet, not a single open page
not a single ******* one
no one wants to buy anything unless they know it has a purpose first
otherwise, it’ll end up in their desk,
blank and staring every time the drawer gets cracked open
and no one will have an answer for it
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:29 AM UTC
I only smoke
when you're around
or when I'm around you,
I don't know which is which
just that a consumption is going on
within me.
You reach down into your pocket book
and pull out a few killing sticks
hopefully,
I'll die of consumption.
That little creature
inside me,
the pink satyr,
jumps
in between my ribs,
whenever you go rummaging
in that golden shimmer of stripper's purse,
and **** out the Marlboros
with a wet-lipped,
wide-arcing
smile.
The creature,
the real me,
plays with his
satyr ****
all day
and bites his nails
and soft cuticles
until the blood runs
and pools in
little
red
pearls.
I am love-starved,
and the satyr is afraid
when he jumps
because that means you're around.
When I'm around you,
or you're around me
something smells,
possibly the iron
of the ******
left-over finger flakes.
The satyr picks up
the soggy,
spit out nails
and shingles
my heart with them.
The satyr shingles my heart
with the fear that you will leave
and that I will have no one
to consume
or be consumed by.
You are my ******
nails and cuticles.
What a ******* emo
you
make me.
I am uncomfortable,
even,
with the notion
that you have an effect
on me.
That's why I dismiss it,
with that whole
"What a ******* emo" title.
And that whole
"What a ******* emo."
last line.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
lead me far from the mainland:
i have need no more for their custom.
gore these umbilical cords i share:
i no longer need their worldview,
i have forsaken them
they have, me
writhing akrobatics!
i whip my flagellated tail
and prance defiantly
into the danger zone,
where the crispness leeches
onto my body
and i shudder in view
of the sincerity i have
forsaken for this
my life has terribly been choked,
ab ovo
in principio,
nothing, was i, but a mere ghost.
caged-in oneirataxia:
i cannot distinguish
( i was a saddened victim of kalopsia )
these prefab worlds:
one, real
the other, an illusion
my life has captured me and
coerced me - prisoner
with blackened post 'round my neck
wrenching exposure
and blemish me.
but there,
there is a light
past corridor's end
and i see it, theoretically,
finally
and i remember the one good thing
to come from Pandora's folly:
hope.
i no longer need their choices
which have guided me past with harm
i can fight alone without their armor
which never did fit right, to start
rummaging for the undertow
in this ocean
to take me far from home
where i am embraced
by my prime
their volition:
no more
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
*the feminine powerlessness of art, and the then again strict rubric of Darwinism's dictatorial regime to talk cool - sieg heil throughout, as a running honk! honk! (joke) on the sly.*
a testimony to high school:
don't ever listen to The Smiths
or The Cure, or Depeche Mode....
or any of my uncle's **** list...
the point being,
you can swagger among
Eucalyptus trees and feed the frenzy
like any Ibiza patron might;
cos' there's a koala rummaging
your drawers so to speak:
due to an episode of king's testicles
in the attic - hey presto!
a grand piano! hey presto! coronation's
fireproof underwear!
lovey dubby dub dub, and a coercive
test for nibbling on a Maltese ginger...
dabbling the fearsome offence...
the only school Morrissey attended was nostalgia.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
I have gone on days
Stumbling down alleyways
Rummaging the ground to find
Any footprints you have left behind
To illuminate this path I've taken
And ease the pain of a love forsaken
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
Let me inject some insight into your windpipe.
The things I'd do to you in a dim light - the sin type.
Lace, hair up, high heels, low patience.
A taste; cold hearted with warm embraces.
Divvy up my intentions to evoke your inner beast,
Rummaging thru to devour my winner feast.
Appetite for destruction, thirst for the unconventional,
Back up, head down as the walls resonate your increase in decibel.
No celestial being within these walls when the mood hits,
Deuces, I'll make you see the light more than twice; my stamina defined: ruthless.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
The snow lay crisply on the sill
And gripped the windowpane.
A coach and horses scurried by
Slowly, slithering down the lane.
Beneath the gas light in the gloom
A group of choirboys sang.
‘Ding **** merrily on high’,
And all the church bells rang.
Whilst in his bedroom, up above,
A little schoolboy lay.
He’d hung his stockings on the posts
And he dreamed of Christmas day.
And on his bed an old greatcoat
Around his neck held tight,
And on his feet a rag knot rug
To warm him through the night.
His water bottle at his chest
Had now become quite cold.
But in his mind the warm thoughts raced
Of many stories told.
His Mom and Dad below him sat
Less warmly by a candle,
And worried how to pay the rent
Thus to avoid a scandal.
‘But one things sure’, his old mom said.
‘This year may be our last,
So we’ll do all that we can do
To make it better than the last.
‘Remember to be quiet’, she said.
‘Don’t wake my baby boy’.
Here’s an orange, apple and monkey nuts
And a little wooden toy’.
His Father crept into his room
And by his stockings knelt.
He slowly placed inside the gifts
Then in his waistcoat felt.
A tiny farthing in his hand
And in his eye a tear.
He gently pushed it with the rest,
Then to his boy drew near.
‘If only I could give you more,
Then Son I surely would.
For if it were the only thing to give
Then I would give my blood.
His Son lay there without a care,
A smile upon his face.
He kissed him gently on the cheek
And left without a trace.
Then slowly creeping across the hills
And softly clipping trees.
An orange globe of Christmas cheer
Began the frost to tease.
Wiping sleep out of his bleary eyes
And awakening to the cold.
Quickly rummaging into the socks
Clutched a farthing as if gold.
A little boy whose Christmas dreams
So simply had been blessed.
Sang a little Christmas song
And rapidly got dressed.
Each breath he breathed froze in the air.
His tiny hands and feet were frozen.
His mind already at the shop
Espied the sweets he chosen.
Liquorice wood and kali dabs
Pink sugar candied mice.
The little journey down the lane
And sliding on the ice.
His mom and Dad they saw his glee,
Forgot their sorry states.
At least upon this Holy day
They’d have food upon their plates
Dec 6, 2009
Dec 6, 2009 at 7:49 AM UTC
After your death
I'm rummaging through the drawers
for your bottle of Vicodin
hoping your ghost
isn't watching.
Why can I never stay clean?
Is it because I'm weak?
I see myself like your husband
in 20 years
a tired young drunk
sick of feeling old,
who died before his grandchildren
were even born.
I hear footsteps in the kitchen
and wonder if it's you
hiding them from me —
but I hear lots of things
when the floor beneath me
crumbles
and I'm left dangling
from my barbed sanity
with ****** hands.
I swore I'd keep it locked away,
this heirloom of addiction,
but right now I need to hold it
and feel it
because I miss you
and I'm not strong enough to accept the fact
that you're gone
just yet.
So far this is the only moment
I've told myself you're not here,
when I find and swallow the last
three pills
that couldn't stop your pain,
then wash them down with gin
that wasn't enough
to stop mine.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
i walk
brain dragging
behind me
(a suitcase)
this is what i have
this is what i know
this is what i am
did i leave my oven on?
will my apartment
(along with my neighbors)
be spent cinders
when i return?
a line of yellow tape
a shyly raised hand
this is all i have
this is all i know
this is all i am
(forgetful)
(stupid)
(out of room)
(out of time)
(out of spite)
(out of rhyme)
poor
dependent
rummaging through my suitcase
on the sidewalk
for my key
(if it’s yours
you have to prove it)
this really is all my
(fault)
(problem)
loss
pushing past my
belongings
looking beneath my
self
i find the only thing
i ever really had
in a place where it can never be turned to ashes
i am all i have
i am all i know
i am all i am
seeing it safe
slightly scuffed but still intact
(contrary to cruel conveyancing)
i wrap my heart in a dying thought
building a fortress of drying observation
around a charred husk
of burnt-out hope
applying it firmly
between clenched teeth
(edging out gravity with pressure)
behind zipped lips
still, i walk
brain dragging
behind me
(a suitcase)
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC