"scarcity" poems
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
The next to empty train
Roars through the mist of dawn
As it passes the lakes and elves
The dark and mystic pines
-forests that once told of horrors
To keep the ones like me
From crossing the line-
This box, this crate
A testament of the modern man
To whom which it serves
It is somewhat of a time traveller
When it breezes the land
That years have made its own
And yet there are scenes from my window
That I know are proofs
Of exceptions to the rule that reads,
“time will take its toll”
All the brooks and oaks
And even more so
Every bolder and stone
Convinces my heart and soul
That I need not be marred and scorned
Broken and torn
By the thistles and thorns
And all the bourdons that the lions
Of this glass world
Convict me to *****
Since there is a side
To the manic and indecisive puzzle that is I
A side of realism and cynicism
Thus I am well aware of my mortality
And the scarcity of the time that is mine
My existence is an indirect unwritten vow
To never bend my back and bow
To never fall in line
And receive my share of coals
To fuel this machine down the rusty tracks
In a race against nature or God
A race to prove one or the other
Or even both wrong
A race we’ve already lost
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
When you hear the word scarcity
It's fundamental.
It doesn't sound pretty
and it's a factor that's environmental.
Unlimited wants and needs to fulfill,
Insufficient productive resources of society.
Only few have good will
This feeling isn't pleasant, and its anxiety
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Living under time management ideas
As if the decision was ours
Night time seems never ideal
No time to question schedules or hours
Insomnia has chosen me
Ignoring these standards
And if it was on me
To chose her or not
And if I had the power
To decide my living fate
I would still be married to her
Because insomnia keeps you awake
She loves your eyelashes
Moving up and down
What else could I choose
other than those who love me?
And insomnia will keep you awake
No intention to bother, maybe
No intention to creep down your tense shoulders
And still
I would choose her
Sans hesitation
No other temptation
Because Night time is for the hungry
Night time won’t tell you you are wasting time
Night time is the ring insomnia carried the day she proposed
And so I sometimes wear the ring
It’s cold and simple
Nothing interesting for those
who have decided to dream
with their eyes closed
But to me, night time has no boundaries
The ring fits us well
The poets and the thinkers
But beware because this ring is also carried by the harmful
They steal the ring off a thinker once in a while
They are silent and could be watching you
Not owning their personal marriage to Insomnia
Only thinking to commit selfish acts
Waiting for you to forget about the ring and the vowel
Waiting for you to manage the little time He’s told you own
Beware of being awake too
He could confuse you with the harmful man
Because you are awake and only those who chose to ignore the imaginative scarcity of time are made to start a revolution for life
So sleep tomorrow, or the next week
Because tonight is all you have guaranteed as your thinking time.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 8:51 AM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Not once, have I tasted the thickness
of your lips.
nor have I felt a shallow hug
lacking passion.
I have only closed my eyes
and dreamed of us
in the darkness of my
bleak imagination.
I have feared
the intensity of your stare
but missed the scarcity
of your comforting voice
But dear,
this lust will only demolish us.
ever so slowly
in the comfort of our own
inconvenience.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.
He dips his feet.
There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.
He swims along.
And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.
He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.
Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.
He has crossed the river.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Althought alone i feel satistied
my soul yet is scared
worried maybe afraid
I am lonely with my solitude and the scarcity of travellers.
but i will keep going
one day i will find my way
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 6:26 PM UTC
Yesterday was a time for intimate tongues
Ones that lunged for lust not love
Crept through secrets on a nighttime train
And marched with a runaway parade
The lips fell softly on subtle skin
Blame of scarcity born within
Caught cheating on another plane
With a love that always fades away
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
1549
My Wars are laid away in Books—
I have one Battle more—
A Foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o’er—
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best—Neglecting me—till
All the rest, have died—
How sweet if I am not forgot
By Chums that passed away—
Since Playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity—
3.5k
Scarcity of phrase,
Once regarded in adoration,
Takes another phase,
Undergoing a transformation.
And hence,
Negligence.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
Like a character hoarding advises like jewelry
from a story like Fantastic Beasts, what do you think
what are the best life advises you have hoarded so far?
Sharing some of mine before they get stuck
in another schedule in the slaughterhouse inventory:
"Wisest is he that knows he does not know"
"Just live your life"
"Sing in Full Voice, Until Then"
"What are you doing here?"
"What is your plan?"
"Eat first"
Do not worry we have better villains
and heroes now than long time ago, I told my brother.
In turn, he made a song on a ukelele
after his little one cried and hid away the broken
CD collection of her brother. They called it together, the
"Last Supper Constellations".
His child said, "If there was a Creator. I would like to think He or She, like you or mama, would be kind. Would not that be swell?"
My brother shared with us one advise from his favorite collection,
"My friend had a family filled with orphans. Even when they could no longer afford to adopt, they continued to adopt children. I did not understand before, but I also did not forget his story." #
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
Two antagonists
joined and evolving...
prevailing scarcity
far rarer abundance
a forked pattern
through millennial time
new century
visions holistic...
technology sightings
viewing through lenses
holographic
wholeness appearing in parts...
promises of science
now simply profound
clear water and plenty
hungry billions soon fed
innovations cropping from
the boisterous crowd...
standing robots astute
heavy labor performed...
global nervous system
growing and formed
by the web...
residue and waste becoming
power transformed...
optimism breaking long
history's confines
questions
large and looming give pause...
the antagonists mentioned
are they soon to transform?
abundance and scarcity
new parents
new consciousness birthing...
awareness with awe
in one simple moment?
ancient spiritual light
is it now flowing
holographic vessels to fill?
what might the
newborn be named?
should she simply
be called... enough?
this name also naming
a bright center glow...
daughter scarcity now
absorbed and lining
her abundant light...
new strength
new vision
a new fork
in our road?
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
I have a dream! I have a dream,
To the racial discriminators, said Martin Luther King,
I have a dream! I have a dream!
To the evil-creating economists, I warn and ring.
Globe witness hunger, inequality poverty and unemployment
The world turns out to be bitter,
To all of you, I write this letter.
To create a world relieved from these and turn better.
I am a mad aspiring economist, a fool,
Searching for the right tool,
You turned the world with full of mess,
People are left with nothing less.
To the world, you gave theories,
Pushed us into a vicious cycle of injuries,
About your theories, you boasted,
It has created a few ruling and bloated.
Most of you worked as economic hitmen,
Turned victim laymen to fighting gunmen.
To the realities, your theory is distant,
Served no solution to the dying peasants,
To the few, we remain a psychological slave and servants,
Tuned our lives to a depended migrant.
With your development lecture,
You have killed the entire nature,
In the name of ventures, corporates turned vulture,
Hunted and looted our generations’ future.
We lived a self-reliant community,
You killed us with imposed liability,
Our lives are now placed in intensive casualty,
The word that remains imagination still is equality.
We lost our humanity and identity,
In your eyes, we are just a market and commodity,
Your play with scarcity, was a mere futility,
We finally became a society, filled with atrocity.
Your useless lectures of development,
Put us under frightening & irrecoverable unemployment,
For a few, you got us into a deep-rooted enslavement,
So, now for you instead, we make a replacement.
To my questions, you neglected and ran,
In your eyes, I am foolish stupid common man,
To you short-sighted range,
I say I will bring in a change!
Today, I may remain lower and mere viewer,
A day will come, where you will stand to answer,
Writing a new rule, I would seize your beloved positions,
This will be my lifetime mission and ambition.
I say with all my limited experience,
I will put a test to all your conscience,
Are you just a fat-big corporate’s hand?
With people will you always stand?
I am not an economist,
I am neither an egotist,
I proclaim! I proclaim!
I am a revolutionary economist,
I know you will fit me a label,
I am sure I will be an economic rebel,
A rebellious economist.
I dream a world without huge inequalities,
I dream a world free from imposed liabilities,
I dream a world without poverty and disparities,
I finally dream for becoming an economist with no ambiguities.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
A whole piece of cake
In exchange to a slice of your head,
Fed you with excessive sweetness
And made me famish for your entire mind.
I recall the nights
Of your faraway look almost imperceptible,
The riddle of your smile
And your tales of departure.
With nicotine on your lips
And caffeine on mine,
I was the silent listener
Of your careless narrative.
Such brief moments harbored inside me,
When like your furtive grin
And sly glances, ensnared my thoughts
Craving more from fragments of your soul.
As time made its scarcity known
And fondness its urgent manifestation,
The sugar note and saccharine gift
Snatched you completely away from me.
Today in coffee city
Alone or with company,
I relive a fraction of yesterday
Out of the same blend of coffee
And from the small portion of the same cake flavor.
Smoke from cigars fills the air
Like wispy apparition of yours
I make out on every stranger’s face
Across the other tables.
A sip of coffee and a bit of cake
Serve as reminders if not comfort
Of how little you cared to say goodbye,
Leaving a bittersweet aftertaste.
I stir this cup
Divining the future,
And all I see is my self.
Over the counter today and tomorrow
My Italian tongue says, “Tiramisu.”
As my English heart whispers, “Pick me up.”
Maybe then as liquids turn
And as circles run.
I will find my own reflection
In your staring eyes.
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 1:54 AM UTC
If I could simply overcome
Possessive nouns and vowel sounds
I would not need to study ******
Heavy lies’ beheaded crowns
But you make martyrs with your charter
School exclusive service sector
To systemically condemn me
To the destitution nectar
Of the corner story ******
Potential Cinderella caged in
The statistics of the mathematic
Overdose equation
Comatose’n like a Holy Ghost
Of tranquil ranking party skanks
Whose tanks plan out the projects
For the boys still shootin’ blanks
And then the slavers liberate
Some nation-state of god forsaken
Oil barons salivate
To taste the poison Apple’s stake in
Stock in stuffer markets takin’
All the products people makin’
Privatizing profit-docket lawless
Mother Nature rapin’
For some scarcity disparities
In wealth I can’t attain
You keep me feeding on the bottom
From the top, you make it rain
So as the brains continue drainin’
In amenity dependency
I tinker with the inner-machinations
Now the enemy
You’ve made me out to be you see
My generation’s future’s bleaker
Than the past in full HD
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
We don't appreciate what we have
until we lose it
We don't see the glow on the skin
until we bruise it
We don't believe in miracles
until we need it
We don't appreciate farming
until there's famine
We don't appreciate water availability
until there's water scarcity
We don't appreciate wealth
until we see poverty
We don't appreciate good health
until we experience infirmity
We don't appreciate democracy
until we see tyranny
We don't appreciate loyalty
until we see jealousy
We don't appreciate liberty
until we see slavery!
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
Everything feels like nothing, and nothing starts to feel like everything.
Everyday. Everyday as I wake up,
Nothing ever beats the feeling of inadequacy.
Inadequacy to do good
Inadequacy as a daughter
Inadequacy as a student
Inadequacy as a person
Inadequacy in feeling good within my own body
Inadequacy from feeling good about myself.
Everyday feels like an endless loop, you best believe my misery hunts me.
But what is inadequacy?
Is it scarcity? Deficiency? Insufficiency? A lack thereof?
Is it this mindless blob, formless and dark or a mangled form of flesh, eating away at you and your insecurities?
Like a virus, it pins you, goes deep inside you and there is never enough antibiotic for you...
This inadequacy keeps me up at ungodly hours where the sun howls and moon chirps, the clouds look at us, feigning interest, idly looking but never interacting.
This inadequacy lulls me in irregular fever dreams where comfort lies in solitude and loneliness,
where the people that surround you, cover their ears, bites their cheek, looks forwards, smiles faintly, but never tries to understanding.
My heart wails for the smallest of things. Nothing, nothing becomes everything.
My successes make me feel less, still. Everything, everything becomes nothing.
I am this inadequate thing, floating around, never seeming to be enough.
Inadequate. Because i could not protect myself from those who touch my skin like its free real estate, those clammy hands holding me in a state
A state of frenzy that never seems to end
Inadequate. That no matter what I do, my past will forever haunt me and define the being I am now that no matter how much I change, and try and try and try to do good, it will never be
enough.
And those same voices, those same people, they say they scream they tell me,
“You should have told me.”
“You should have fought back.”
“You are a waste of time.”
“You are dumb.”
“You are nothing.”
“You waste your talents for something as this,”
And those same people, let go of words
That back then would have meant nothing
But now it seems to be everything
It becomes my identity
It becomes my oxygen
It becomes the blood that circulates in my body
It becomes the endorphins in my brain
Nothing becomes everything. And everything that I’ve tried to change, worked hard to achieve, tried to mend, was sorry for, starts to become nothing.
But I am tired of feeling like nothing. That everything I do is always inadequate. That it is some form of scarcity, deficiency, insufficiency, a lack thereof.
These mindless blobs, or mangled forms of flesh,
Like a virus, it pins me, goes deep inside me and there is never enough antibiotic for me...
Because instead of listening, to understand, to empathize, they listen so they can jeopardize...
Whatever love is left that I could give to myself,
Without a shred of doubt,
In a warm, bright embrace for myself, in a corner slouched.
So, I ask these voices, who are only here to remind how inadequate I am:
How do I fight back?
How do I be good enough?
How do I become less dumb?
How do I make nothing stay as nothing? And appreciate everything as everything?
Because day by day, this inadequacy I feel, gets really tiring.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 1:26 PM UTC
It will never be easy as some people would say
To see the black and white but still think in gray
Admitting that the extreme end of one side isn’t always the way to go
Unless the lack of redeeming qualities simply make it so
Especially in matters left to one’s personal choice
It calls for the need to look at those of different perspectives and voice
Changes around us require both firmness and flexibility
To get with the times that abounds in ambiguity
In an atmosphere that show a scarcity of pleasance
It would help if in our eyes there is balance
Facing the fact that flaws and fine points can actually coexist
That understanding is the aid for ones inner peace to persist
Tolerance for differences must be present as a form of diplomacy
Though decency must still take root and defend ones boundary
Respecting choices for the sake of peace is truly a noble aspiration
But not before the light and shadow have gone through careful separation
Acceptance and rejection can be balanced though challenging it may sound
An equal and balanced blend of both needed to pave a road in walking the middle ground.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
Today,it rained.
I sat down at my piano,
And composed her an apology.
The patter of rain.
I looked outside,
And saw a tempestuous spillage of emotions,
And an unambiguous uttering of poetic truth;
That I never could discover on my own–
I saw the trees tell me explicitly.
God has His ways.
It was one.
I never would have guided,
My ever-so-guarded heart–
To yield with all honor retained,
And accept this silent insatiable feeling–
Love.
It always had been love;
That defeated time,
In the want of immortality,
In the pursuit of eternity;
That was abundant in scarcity,
And that sat like one timid angel,
In the abyss of my heart,
And lit it up.
Today, it rained.
I sat down at my paino,
And felt eternal in the silence between the notes.
Tomorrow, it will rain.
I will sit down at my piano,
And sing a song to the moments of eternity,
That God makes us experience,
Wearing this mortal suit;
In the name of love.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 7:55 AM UTC
love
to sufferers of
scarcity
consider it
embodied in
a soul-mate
one for
one
whole split
yet aggregate
two
halves per
simplistic
two-dimensional
singular
somehow minded
to be
complete?
stretch out
blinded horizons
for everything
to see
is actually
a
part of
an infinitely
dimensional
infinite
part of
me
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
You could desperate hear me start weeping
Ruckus started to crying to crack tangerine
holds one still upright auburn
as an immortal's loneliness fogged or condemned
stays a Sahara burnt hot tambourine
a hangover led Arabian
a broken record
some shattered the bathroom bar.
I wonder for my brother's dowry
on beds too kempt to be called beds
and doorframes and lamps set never high enough to hit again,
to stand to kneel to lock to lash to hold to my brother's body
now felt to me like the female sold fragile to the greater cities with
a vote,
he clearly left his Argentina behind no matter
how she paled, ended struck.
No longer a child or sister to pass as
to take guests in alone
to stand our married couple's cries an unmuteable radio
can't go back to playrooms for imparallel dignities' sake
that made all the noise at night worth it to deal with
I, don't want to play the rook
if no horse of yours' beside.
Now once the scarcity of your voice,
if even morbid,
is to be greeted by me alone,
Adam and Eve we have unable to see,
just for the empty halls of your decision just for me to hit,
your turned leaf hidden agenda of relief,
I recognise my faiths of the old of your endless
mornings supposedly killed by snoring and your
vividness to my thoughts a foreign concept,
to note you resurrected out of mind and out of sight
the congruence picks me out and slaps me that
our cocoon and safe designed for you
was nothing short of a coma web in your eyes
to begin with instead.
...
I look out to my brother's dowry
to hold stubborn, fainted in my nook the head of my brother's body
to sit on his old air this house keeps like a sari gem
he will never long for
again.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 10:10 AM UTC
I try to wear you once in a while,
making sure if you fit the same
as the last time i checked
But then again, whenever i notice
the apparent worn off, tired seams
from the fabric that was once our love,
I go back again and sew them together,
Carefully threading the gaps back
where they once were sewn tightly shut,
left with no space for inadequacy,
hardly any place for scarcity of love.
My misguided, solitary efforts then proved
a love with tenuous and delicate clothing
that has misplaced its capacity
to wear out storms and excessive usage.
Back there is where i find
that not everything burnt out
could rekindle its flame.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
Money scarcity
low circulation
high prices
High demand
More expenditures
less earned
Paid goods not delivered
The delivered not paid
Borrowing for debts
Accumulation of misfortune
death of loved ones
More crimes committed
A life of inequalities
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 4:57 AM UTC