"schematics" poems
Clothes have outgrown me many times over,
but this sadness never does.
One size.
fits all.
There should have been an obituary for cancer, not you.
Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.”
My name causes a sigh to escape from lips,
that do not feel like they belong to me,
the girl,
whose words always had to be special.
The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain,
born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child.
Never trusting time
due to what it delivers.
Death, being the only thing I desired.
But you,
who I love,
endlessly-
robbed by it.
Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly.
Stopped comparing depression to lace,
restricted the belief that suicide is poetic,
seeing things as they were.
More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply.
Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes.
This world is not tender.
II. Sad.
I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored you that day.
split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds.
My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die-
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body-
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.
But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
dreading the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths
You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed.
III. Jokes played by the universe.
punchlines delivered,
how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself?
How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets,
and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them?
How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought-
of knowing people would thrive without me,
or the power of a belly laugh,
resembling a laugh track audience
drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
*all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor*
***a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened***
*I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced
perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made
perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased
there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,
3/13/18
1:09am
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
I envied the cadavers haunting my nightmares,
watching those before me
spread upon a metal slab
bodies are hand-me-downs of regurgitated poetry,
with wretched closets in which I take their place.
This ventilator called "loved ones"
forcing breath into anguished lungs-
tragedies belonging to these poets meant something,
a desire to save the words written,
but never the one who becomes a eulogy.
Agony burrows inside of me,
conversations with my mother's ghost
still,
the living are possessed by
the dead's shortened tomorrows.
To die by suicide wouldn't give,
authenticity to hurt.
I am learning the autopsy of a soul:
extracting a heart from the chest,
as it's sense of belonging was never there.
An inability to weigh the words bleeding from valves,
aside lungs I'm unable to breathe through.
How ungrateful is it of sorrow to ask for hope?
placed in a pill divider to swallow,
muscles within my throat so tight.
Wondering,
How many times did I diminish my voice?
Inside the brain,
schematics of labyrinths with no end to betterment.
Surgeons reach for a soul,
an iridescence small enough
held in a gloved palm,
watching it writhe.
Placed upon a slide,
but even a microscope
cannot perceive the pain a soul hides.
Once more,
stitched with needle and thread.
Wilting of my own garden,
comes one day-
an incision is made opening me up.
My heart showed the same
blood-red ink, writing apologies
on the marble floor.
They opened my arm,
displaying a noose of veins.
In this moment,
they removed my soul
only to gift it to another
birthed from torment
ripped out of the arm's of their mother
& into the embrace of woe.
—V.H.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 12:01 AM UTC
I learnt to tie my shoes
I learnt to ride my bike
I learnt to smoke
I learnt the vulnerability of fully exposing an idea
I learnt to tie my shoes
I learnt to adapt my behavior in the light of others' actions.
I learnt the difficulty of sustaining the hopes of youth.
I remember a French girl with an English name.
'Leave me now, return tonight,' she told me every morning, and I did.
I remember an English girl with an French name.
We were the circle that no one could break, or so I thought.
Yesterday I was there.
Today I am here.
The two are light years apart.
I dance with a friend,
holding her hand realize,
how disconnected I have become,
from the simple beauty of touch.
I return and sense,
that things are not the same as before,
but feel had I stayed,
everything would likely seem the same.
Your words touch me.
Your thoughts excite me.
I want to try all that.
Explore everything with you.
Alone.
All one.
If and but and maybe and whatever.
I hate those words.
Everything doesn't have to be perfect.
To idealize is also a form of suffering.
------ by Julian Hibbard
st...26 march 2014
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
. it's like...
listening to
the freddy krueger
soundtrack...
and then...
coming across
ashleys abundance
videos...
you seriously can't
make the **** up!
handshakes with your
shadow, all the way through,
in not making diary
inquisitions,
of dietary requirements.
look at me?
i know...
creepy as the ****
that isn't,
even
closely related to punk;
i had to relate to
alternative impromptus...
i was raised on original
*** Godzilla movies...
i was questing for
an alternative to ****
can i confiscate an teenage girl
with raspy voice?
yes? no?
fuck it... lets go!
tits for bagpipes!
god almighty,
this alternative to ****
late teen girls merely talking...
about their dietary schematics...
oh yeah... date no. 1...
me?
i already have my issues...
i'm a heavy drinker...
i'm not looking for a date,
i'm looking for a ******* dog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
Corroding off in wreckless control
Repeated lines stretching infinitely in ambiguity
Sharp muscle relaxant mistakes
As we career off the road
Into a ravenous singularity
We are unforgiving, cynical yet synthetically joyous
Quick to pardon
Whipped with a gold leash
Delicate, leaves, Celtic music
Rubik's cubes in our throats
We're ready to let love in, willing
Nova tech, drunk masks and indication
Indignation, we clutch, we fail
Partial to conditions
Stones out of focus
Accelerate
Engines bleed borders
You are the free way
Impotent with quartz remnants
Ruins to our fantasy
You hide history
Covered in my burrow
Braking until necks break & bags burst
Powdered hair, liquid lips
Let's drive home
Go beyond the limit
Break each others bones
And crush our entities
Suffocate on suffixes
Her explanation acquits the doubt
As we appear closer than we may actually be
Industrial stacks stretch towards invisibility
Letting go of their concentrate
Gelatin mind
levitate into connection
Cups turned upside down
Entrapping ego in near vacuum
Aqua ducts bouncing off feline eyes
2 & a 4
Perfect air in a foreign atmosphere
Spinned on axis, ways to conduct
Your supply
Secede madness
Eternal order
Lungs sharply inhale with uncertainty
Hydroplaning your attempts at adultery
Decision was never your thing
Unmoving at every turn
Passion with objects
Reactions flicker between humility
It gives gifts
Your skin melts to the touch
Chocolate in magma
Molten sound deafens drench
Jealous mess, dividend
Hugging and dripping black with stability
Back, holy scripture written with integration
Sealed with treachery, acetate photography
Capturing clear innocence
Boredom and sinfulness
Spiked militant
Pencil drawn neuroses, veil
Bow down to schematics, we're radar
Sonar structure solar
It's all part of the process
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
At this point I feel like the universe is mocking me.
It might not be that I don't see god, but that I can't.
The past comes fast to bite my heels every time I
think that I'm making progress. I'm wiser now than
I was before, it's clear, I affirm as I take today's pills
so I can step out the door. Suicide was a big deal
but I never did it. Over time I realized how good
it is to choose friends. How safe it is to manipulate --
over self-destruction, what an improvement. A
sad sea of years is only bad with a lack of grasp
on the force that pushes you with an eager
wind. How safe is it to say, simply that I've changed
for the better and made improvement?
We broke the truce way back when,
you thought I was God and I couldn't prove it.
History repeats with a new veneer. A new sheen
to improve the wrapping of the package.
The package's contents remain the same.
History repeats with a new veneer. A new sheen
to improve the wrapping of the package.
The package's contents remain the same.
History repeats with a new veneer. A new sheen
to improve the wrapping of the package.
The package's contents remain the same.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
Plasmatic schematics
mold plastics
& filament
dangles in the doorway.
Grape fuit sweat,
enough to fill a
Basilisk flask,
stains my nostrils.
Thermodynamic hammocks
solved the energy crisis
between me
& her.
A golden silhouette
postulates in my doorway;
speaking in tongues
to her ****
She is the structure
of water.
The process
of a thought.
Gouge out my eye
&
hold it consciously
between those clammy palms .
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
It all started with a kiss--
Well more along the lines,
Of a full out miss.
But all of that,
Is neither here, nor there.
Because it all started with your lips.
Your lips--
A matching set of pure sin.
But yet again that falls under schematics.
What matters is, how it ended.
With a shove, and then a pull.
The wall, of my resolved;
Crumbled far across my kingdom.
You ask for how it ended?
When did I ever say--
The story was finished.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
No dispute. I’m not here to refute.
Hardly can register, let alone compute.
I try and navigate without quite knowing the route
but i would prefer the journey even if the destination isn't absolute.
All about life, acquiring knowledge like it’s loot,
I’m on an adventure through time as peaceful warrior recruit.
Making observations sometimes astute
and tying to figure out the difference between being silent and being mute.
Using honest and concentrated intentions that never dilute,
I deal the cards and find the patterns that suit
the direction I’m aiming towards to shoot.
Taking the steps necessary boot by boot
with the idea that growing forward comes from some kind of root.
With concepts both vast and minute,
some tend measure me by angles and label me acute
but I’d rather be noted by the endeavors of my pursuit
so I’m going to be have a filter that shall not pollute
and have words that thoughts may deem as forbidden fruit.
If you happen to disagree, makes you not necessarily brute
but if you feel like me then find a clever way to salute
and discover what ever it is for you that you find resolute.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
I have
A faulty brain
You have to excuse me
They use me
For tests
Studying
The schematics
Of a pscycopathic
Nonbeliever
WIll bring light
To the mysteries of
The dark mind
They say
You will never understand me
And I urge you
To never try
I am
A firm believer
In the absurd
And I vow
To never to stray
NOW MOVE!!
Before I let loose
With words to subdue
You're mind subtly
Then suddenly
I fascinate!
Until you indulge
Into this state
Of unknowing
Knowledge
Evil as the apple
Eve picked from
The tree
Sweet treat
Would you also
Like a bite to eat?
I am
The imperfect creation
Made perfectly
For your consumption
Others may slump in
Depression
Then
It's do and die
Commiting
Philosophical suicide
With the extremists
Who would sacrifice
A child's life
For god's sake
Who made
A mess out of earth,
Snakes?
Who constructed
This absurd brain
To think this way
What hands formed
The mandible
Which speaks
Sinful opinions
The open-ended
Questions of life
Were reserved
For religion?
Tell me why
I
Can imagine a place
As evil as hell
But can't create
And wouldn't
If I could
Speak vile
But
My actions speak justice
Just as quick
As you claim
I'll lay in a lake of fire
I'll say
I have to stay
And never leave
This is the punishment
For saying
What I believe.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:50 PM UTC
**Half past intermittent lunacy,
quarter to expectations in
restoration's consciousness &
brain filtered hullabaloo,
catching flies whilst passing time
it's all set in enigmatic mindset,
take a pill to swallow the moon
or sun yourself on a deserted isle
hardly matters the schemed schematics,
makes not one bit of difference
to the ravenous cuckoo clock**
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
You're a satellite that relays pain
Synchronizing circles in my brain
While signaling shame
To come join the game
You present a mighty mystery
That makes my sanity history
From agony that is blistering
That's what your wit serves me
The ambiguity
Is slowly ruining
My innate ingenuity
Yet I must act intuitively
You're a satellite in the air
In desperate need of repairs
I ask to see your schematics
I'm told I'm being dramatic
I float through space and time
After losing this race of lies
Along with the grace of mine
While stuck in the pace of grind
Before too long I answer wrong
A one-sided game of ping-pong
And your attitude is singsong
Not caring if something's wrong
Outside of the Earth's atmosphere
The sun is to be feared
Because it doesn't care
I experience a solar flare
Then the gamma rays poke holes in my cells
Until I'm eventually in hell
With a satellite that can't communicate
Only ruminate
On information already gathered
So there is no room for me
But until an asteroid splatter
There will be signals I see
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
To those who speak against being 'rude': you are not a friend of truth or understanding.
You coddle yourself in a somnambulant daze,
Where the harshest realities lay deep in your soul,
And you walk away, as far from this dormant minefield you've lain,
Leaving the active bombs for others to stumble upon.
And they suffer because of your laziness,
Avoiding your task of diffusing these bombs that only you understand,
And you still aren't sure where the schematics are,
So the damage continues,
And you have become a despot,
Watching people die from your pointless violence.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
if a woman were to wile
and beguile me
it would be she--
she is ebola, burning hot and fast
replicating majesty
without space or energy--
she is spirit in a short circuit
voltage and current--
she aptly replaces
the schematics
copied down in physics.
a girl of the Ganges--
distance distracts
and remembers little
yet often still i pray to
insulate her sparks, to
absorb each ionic mote
of excess she discharges,
wrap them in neutrino ribbons
and save them under my vest
for the birthdays still to come.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
The pile builds, accretion of assignments a while until
Relaxing, busy work not terribly taxing but my time
All consumed, brief pause and then resume the battle
Of the usual, ramble babble prattle of the professor then I lose
A full night of sleep, toxins in each anxious beat
Of stressed heart, DNA schematics down for art
And not a rigid scheme, blackboard is bleeding on me
And now the groups are formed, locusts of ambition in a swarm
I am devoured, avoiding conflict like a coward
I see his eyes, abandoned on an island he dies
In the horizon, my face of kindness becomes wizened
Faint and feeble, I recognize my capacity for evil
To continue, make no apology for sins due no effort made
To right things, expect a well deserved strike of lightning
Very frightening, conscience panicking muscles tightening
No chance at being friends, dread the day we meet again
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 5:34 AM UTC
Lines drawn.
Erasers
kept tucked in back pockets.
I'm circled. I'm shaded.
Smudged out,
separated.
You'll redraw the floorplan
schematics are changing
and I've
got the handbook.
regulations tossed out windward.
Wearing out
all the reasons for more sensible feelings.
The seasons change fast here,
I'm sure you'll be leaving again.
And you'll go
any place
that the latest squall takes you,
expecting I'm waiting.
But I've got blueprints of my own.
"Go anywhere you choose.
I won't care about the news."
The headline that I'm writing
and I wish that it were true.
So roll me up with the rest
of the shabby, used up trash.
Emptied cups and smoked-out butts.
All that's good has been unwrapped.
I'm cellophane.
Life spans.
Placeholders.
Not even a memory.
It's notched up. It's useless.
Refused
and ablated.
I'll toss out these blueprints.
**** all these schematics.
And you
wrote the last word
scrawled out in constructed language.
Wearing out
every patience for these senseless intentions.
I'm fenced off. You flatter
yourself and you're leaving again.
And I'll go
right back home
to my tiny apartment
where four walls await me.
But I still don't want you to leave...
...'cuz it's easy to believe
that you're beautiful beneath
these buzzy, dimming bar lights,
squinting through this hazy scene.
I've seen
this one before.
I know the script
like the way to my front door.
But, with constructed language,
our meaning will languish.
And I'll fade back to static.
Again.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
There is a door in each mind
Where things will hide
Beneath every corner and shadow
To protect itself the room fills with toxins
So to protect the human outside this mind
a fictitious character is made
The only thing that can be grasped
is the heart no longer the mind.
Only if she would allow one to understand
Read her schematics, and try to make sense.
That behind those shattered eyes
is a view of the world falling around her.
The scattered pieces tear any man apart
Breathing in the toxic air one can wish
to be unbreakable
to hold her pains inside themselves.
That door in her mind
has never been entered
With a trefoil hanging from the door
as a warning to never enter.
No one will ever return
when that door shuts
Know that the shadows
allow no life inside.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
None to sum/
it up in addition to/
A fraction underlying facts climatic subliminal/
additional subtracting decimals exercise as I see fit/
conditional regiments it all works out settled a calm bereavement/
A dead cause/
Conquer by divide/
So long like a good buy/
purchase blind had to a-dress the naked eye look/
Observe As I concur with these verbs/ learned/
action/
created/
moved/
elevation/
un organization to a smooth concatenation/ no exaggeration it's over well done/ the product of minus what was taken? some/ would say there's no equal equanimity equal to none/
Philosophical
math a scientific conundrum/
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
I'm not some sort of endangered species.
I'm not a ******* Pink Lady Slipper its okay to pick me.
Pluck me
Love me
**** me
Just tell me the truth.
Before I grow roots into you.
Rip open my rib cage and ever so gently pull the weeds from my tangled bones.
Hold me against you like a bouquet of roses.
I want to know your plans.
So show me the schematics of your heart beat,
I promise my blueprints are so much more than the veins in my forearms when we hold hands.
I'm trying to find a forest.
I'm tired of climbing over mountains,
just to walk through fields of dandelions.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
dream louder the clouds mirror aims closer to perfection
professionally tested to send you a different angle
strangers retract the rain, makes the sane feint
I’m on a bus to Vegas with 85 dollars to my name
I just bought a notebook and a pack of pens
ask me what I care about, stare into the eye of god
ask me about my whereabouts, I would say
know where to be found, resounded purity
infectious lessons tested limits of the heavens
sentenced ever so delicate to shower with the stars
to plan without execution is merely dreaming
ditch your schematics, aspirations make it right
thriving for a glass ladder to make it one more night
my stepping stones were always granite
when I canceled plans to dance in solace
and all it showed me was my ruthlessness
this mess was your pain as well
I stained your fairy tale where heroes died victim
rebels lied in wake passively attentive
to the fact that fate was fake
it’s no mistake when we’re all born stars
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
He sat for eons,
God's workbench,
His tools,
Materials.
Brass and gold,
Silver, platinum,
Aluminum,
Electrum and copper,
Rubies and emeralds.
God made watches.
One fine day,
He decided
"Earth."
And grabbed up a frame,
And started filing.
And by God did he file.
The schematics.
The gears.
Must be perfect.
Five days later,
God was almost done,
Only one gear remained,
The finest of gears,
God spent more time
On this one gear
Than any other
In his watch.
This gear is you.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
I'm the reclusive wreck-loose
Who's about to let loose
And instigate and substantiate the fact that society's narrow mindedness is there for us to instantiate that we ourselves have to promote understanding and antiquate hate
Accidents happened and mistakes were made
They take a sardonic look at the schematics of a systematic syncopated symmetry
They say we dare not deviate from the Fibonacci Sequence
But to matriculate
And be quick on the uptake
Then add ourselves to the division of labour
I make empirical claims to disarm ephemeral things
Fashion
Technology
Music
Life as a whole
But then I'm the *******
They salt the songbird's tail
Clipping the properties of personality
"Bide your time so you don't do anything foolish and bite your tongue so you don't say anything you may regret"
But this is this part of the cocoon effect
Waiting to see all the failed racists
After this metaphysical metamorphosis
So modern
So contemporary
It's classic
Soon to be ancient
The adages and aesthetic aphrodisiacs
'Who do you want to be when you grow up?"
"What do you want to be when you grow up"
"I want to be civilization as you know it..or as you like it"
Peradam- Something that shows itself to those who truly seek it.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC