"shortened" poems
to my darling who feels she's not:
our separation is mere illusion.
truly, your pain strikes me as i write this;
your sensations of abandonment,
and the decisiveness they have caused,
bleed from my skin into the fibers of my clothes.
i am no longer clean.
i do not feel pure.
to my severed arm and shortened tendons:
destruction is merely another side of life.
out of disappearance comes all things-
without space, there would be nothing to contain us,
nothing to allow and enfold our beings' spirits,
and they would sputter and cease like my love's flame.
i am no longer yours.
i do not feel full.
to the farthest star that my eyes can see:
your light reaches me- i glimpse you!
in the perceived emptiness between us
there is no distance to be found;
around us exists the infinite potential for
further connection and deeper growth in closeness.
i am no longer alone.
i do not feel sorrow.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Four years have past
Yet your memory seems to last
I shed my tears across the page
My heart threatens to break it's cage
This year you'll be twenty-one
Drinking alone isn't going to be fun
The track ran smooth, but your hear was frail
You worked yourself over the rail
One lap, two lap, three lap, four
I count the miles wanting more
You loved the track, you loved the sun
I imagine you with me when I run
Your auburn hair, your glowing eyes
Your smiles brightening darkened skies
I smile for you, you smile for me
It fills my heart with shortened glee
Goodbye dear Sara, we'll miss you so
I love you dear, remember you're no longer a child of woe
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
I thought and thought
I hoped and believed
I cried and mourned
I screamed and laughed
Then I realised it was passion.
My gorgeous
Every moment with you
Crazy for you
The fluff of your paw
Touches my soul
You gnaw at my heart
Endless days
Shortened nights
Awaken to the mystery of life
Picasso book
"Art Can Only be ******
Chewed
My babe forgiven all
You daze into my eyes
Lips so soft
I am insane for you
Our affection entwined
You lay on my chest
I feel every breath
And I realise it's Passion
Forever crazy for you
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
there was the quickened pace
my feet and my heart
i knew not the difference
both were intertwined as one
lips slightly apart, irregular breathing
as time shortened our distance
eyes sparkling with anticipation
my thoughts only on one
and at that colliding of a second
if there were lights it was all on us
though hands shaking, grips firm
at that moment, both connected as one
no denying this attraction
burst out of nowhere
as if silently waiting all along
a million other people, but to me he's the one
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
You called me bae
Do you even know the meaning of that word?
It is not a shortened version of Babe
It stands for Before Anything Else
When you called me bae
I took it as being important and love
To you it was a less attached meaning of babe
I was nothing when you told me I was before anything else
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
In response to the text: *"who wants to get ********* this weekend?"*
I reply: I'll bring donuts, Gatorade, and Cards Against Humanity.
I tell the girls that the snacks are for them, so they don't get too drunk or hungover.
But really I know myself too well, and I binge when I feel lonely.
Its hard not to feel lonely, when you're the only sober one there.
At the Party:
Never Have I Ever reveals more than I ever thought it would.
I might be the oldest, but I am by no means the most mature.
Things I have never heard of, things I could have never thought of are things of which they speak.
Two donuts are gone.
Their alarms all go off at 10:00 for birth control. They take out their mini purse packs of 30 pills, no bigger than a credit card.
I don't take birth control, because my periods are regular, and well:
Depression+antidepressants+confusion of sexuality= no *** drive at all.
I mean zip, zero, nothing.
Leaving me to be the only ****** of the six girls here.
Three donuts are gone.
Hours ago though, I took my 300mg of Seroquel XR.
I timed it just right.
This time I won't fall asleep hours before everyone else
'Pong' requires drinking so I sit their and watch.
Four donuts are gone
Shots are taken.
I pour more tea into my mug.
Five Donuts are Gone
Drunk face-timing old friends who have moved away results in much yelling, and her hanging up.
I start a new group text where I talk only to myself.
All Donuts are gone
There is no wonder why alcohol and depression don't mix
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
14
One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.
There’s only one recorded,
But both belong to me.
One came the road that I came—
And wore my last year’s gown—
The other, as a bird her nest,
Builded our hearts among.
She did not sing as we did—
It was a different tune—
Herself to her a music
As Bumble bee of June.
Today is far from Childhood—
But up and down the hills
I held her hand the tighter—
Which shortened all the miles—
And still her hum
The years among,
Deceives the Butterfly;
Still in her Eye
The Violets lie
Mouldered this many May.
I spilt the dew—
But took the morn—
I chose this single star
From out the wide night’s numbers—
Sue—forevermore!
4.1k
Stifled tears and shortened breath,
earthquake for hands
that deserve rest.
Diminishing comfort
the deeper I wander
but closer to fulfillment
the more layers uncovered.
Not sure really, what I'll find
as I peel
myself alive.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:27 AM 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
Joy conceived in the vision
The Lily of the drought
Volunteer of the incision
And a seed of doubt
Black silky Intertwined threads
The touch and sound of care
Love, warmth, comfort spreads
Your intensity in all rare
Infinite options hang above
Spinning a smoky vortex
Simply what you hate or love
Discombobulates my cortex
Only clues to a mystery
Yet partials of a masterpiece
Less of shortened history
Wonder moves me not to cease
Jul 4, 2023
Jul 4, 2023 at 1:49 PM UTC
it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts.
a shortened critique of pure reason -
a) based on phenomena
(things most likely talked about)
and
b) based of noumenna
(things least likely talked about)....
i.e. a) and the ego implant,
and b) the god implant -
likewise the zealots on either side,
bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims...
i forgot to mention that Kant forgot
to mention the trigonometric foundations
as justifying owning a villa or whatnot,
the same foundations of having
the implant ego secured and willed
are the same parameters of the
implant god secured and thought
the point being dynamic parallelism,
mid-way between cosine and sine
rigid fluctuation tangents occur,
the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.;
you're basically born with ego
or you're born with god -
there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between -
ring-a-ding-ding-surprise?
there's no side-winding to create cinema -
being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced
with monetary affairs;
being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced
with murderers, lastly -
no psychological theory will box-me-in
given the lost tribalism and the usage of
the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing -
with money came slang - and all thorough evils,
with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab.,
Arizona in the ******* Amazon -
i'm basically saying what Kant said:
god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget,
it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it
by argument, and we certainly can't accept it
by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either
for worth of understanding tornadoes;
because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me,
filming Twister.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Now that it's past the time
that all reasonable people go to sleep,
I warm my engine
and roll alone through sick slickened city streets.
Roads rise up in strips
there polished black backs reflect up a red ribbon of road
beaming down from the two electric eyes,
telling me where to head to next.
With concentration my eyes pick shadows from the dark
and i slide past them
breaking there delicate images
with the water that whips off my balding wheels.
The radio blares stupidly
because he's a ladies man
because they aren't going to take it
because he has 99 problems
because Jesus loves you
because...
There is no reason for this.
For burning fossil fuels
as i rip through the frigid night.
No reason,
for singing the tune
to the words i don't know.
No reason,
for speeding up
and letting go.
No reason,
to let myself spin at last
screeching,
screaming,
and finally smiling,
through that final crossroad.
They will find me,
broken and content,
blood pooling and painting,
a polished portrait of my shortened and hurried life.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
Get in your feet!
Pick up the pace!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Move your feet one towards the other!
Don't let yourself be slaughtered!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Run, with your numbed legs!
Run, with your shortened breaths!
Run, run while you still can!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Don't trip or tumble over!
Or else it'll be over!
Look straight ahead! Don't look back!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Oh no! He took his last breath!
Oh no! He tumbled down!
Oh no! He's coming! He's coming!
Run, Runner! Dead, Runner!
He took him by his legs!
He fell unconsciously!
Oh no! What will He do?
Dead, Runner! Dead Runner!
He took his head as an ornament;
He fed his carcass to the dogs;
He put his shoes as a souvenir;
Dead, Runner. Dead, Runner.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
soft words and their way of making people sing
lull me like a sweet tune in this chimney, in this place
in my head, slurring over and over until lines would draw up triangles of sleepy infant "jeux",
circles of faded fantasies would come to life and pray,
plus rectangles and cornucopias filled with fun and livelier days.
clouds of droopy golden light drip over our heads as we both lay
in soft blankets made out of my personal handmade Heaven's embrace
lush silk pillows under our overweight, over-bearing, strongly fastened necks
'cause they hold Atlas' weight and the answers for today.
the cycle ends for another shortened day...
the air seems rich with the smell of freshly-made pancakes.
little troll walking down the stairs with a new spring in her step.
lean into the chocolatey sweetness of a mother's oven-like haze,
close your eyes and wonder
if you'll ever feel the same.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 1:28 PM UTC
After feeling like this, to my lowest low and my highest high
You made me realize what it’s like to die, not emotionally but physically
A new thought I never had in my head,
To have my breath shortened, just because I let you into my bed.
This is a new extreme for me, which is hard to beat.
For you filled my life with guilt, shame and deceit.
You pushed me to the ground, deteriorating every little ounce of me
Testing me with trivial questions. I should have recognized the warning sign, bright yellow and shiny black titled “hazard”. Like the reflection of a roadwork sign, saying slow down, danger, caution, this is the borderline.
My instinct was right, No honour go back I said.
You had something over me, like a beautiful grey moth entranced to the light, but deep down inside I knew your world burned too bright. Your personality just stuck to me,as if I was ants attracted to the sweet honey that dripped off the honey comb.
Inside, I knew I should go home.
Words fly, tensions get high.
Why did I not go back to Vendome?
His hands strong hands wrapped round my soft neck, pushing me into the bed, I felt my heart pulsating.
I closed my eyes wishing that he would push harder and longer, to actually feel something other than this pain and misery that he placed upon me.
He looked at me in gratification, that smirk said it all, as he accomplished sometime great like an encore at curtain call.
A look of a great man, big and powerful now its time to take a shower, as what he did was nothing the matter.
My state in shock. What has happened? Is this really unmasking his disguise?
For the mask he wore was unforeseen, like a child at halloween.
The tears in my eyes was not avid, until he clenched his hand to play rock paper scissors,
but little did I know that his rock would cut through my paper.
leaving me with bruises and now a traitor.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Yesterday,
Tender pursuits
Ordered
by shortened expression
And personal amusement.
Pleasure was channeled
by uncanny imagination.
Ignorance was developed
with years
of sheltered nurture.
Endeavors were focused
Through heartened dreams
Waiting eternities to age.
Today,
Life is starved of dignity,
Lead by the breath of humanity,
And trailed by my past.
Kindness overshadowed
by needless mockery.
Confidence diminished
Through thoughtless faults.
Purity saturated
with uncertain willingness.
Competence choked
from the flairs of society.
Tomorrow,
Independence is a necessity
Steered by Today,
Speckled by yesterday.
Motivation should dictate
my verdicts,
And challenge perils.
Agonies lifted
Through sanguinity
Virtue grown
Only through praise
From the satisfaction of many.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow
Immersed in today
Is the root of my future.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
<> for the love of friends<>
How does one write
of one he knew not?
the ancillary evidence
mounts relentlessly,
the double toil and trouble moments
edged now, slow vanquished by
steady accumulation
of the evidentiary
a man who lived his life well,
will be inevitably,
nay, justifiably, deservedly
be well remembered...
one examines the evidence with
eyepiece lenses calibrated
to one's own soul,
for this is the natural condition
of humanity
yet wonder,
what manner, what scale,
does one rightly employ
to judge another's
plantings in the soil?
rightly judge another?
then you hear
a woman say,
she knew not knew
this man Eryc,
revealing an honest tertiary,
even cursory knowledge
of an anecdotal life well lived
our shared quandary,
yet she solves
this judicial issue
by asking of herself
a question
so stunningly elementary,
which both
asks and answers
the double risk
you have imposed,
to write of one you can never behold,
and in doing so,
judge thyself...
What Would Eryc Do?
this crystal rapid current question
erodes doubt, the fear to tread
where one knows not
when a stranger says to another,
indeed to many others:
heard tell of this young man,
and know now to ask myself
when I too am junctured, in doubt,
What Would Eryc Do?
there is no doubt, no juncture,
just a provident question
a makers's mark
of and upon a man,
whose future shortened,
will live far, far longer than most,
if one simple applies
a standard to one's own life of
What Would Eryc Do?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Fickle in self and in nature
at least Winter is giving me a stir.
I'm already seeking daffodils and snowdrops
going to impossible lengths
trains and taxis just to glimpse
the glory of those shortened days
where my irises softened by the mild hue
gives a wide credit to the prevailing next month
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
I wake up on a yogibo. It's comfy, but,
I'm in what is now just
My room.
It feels empty.
All the clutter
That made it look lived in
Is in the three empty
Sock and underwear drawers
That used to be:
Hers.
All the pictures of us
and half the nerdy posters
were removed from the walls.
Half of the games,
movies,
books,
Magic the Gathering cards,
Are all gone, so the shelves look bare.
Half the closet is empty.
I walk into the hallway and pass three doors
The first door leads to a bathroom,
The second a closet.
The third is what I now call a "guest bedroom".
The only things in it are an
Empty dresser covered in
Princess stickers...
And a bed frame.
I try not to leave that door open.
Go Down stairs
Sink into car,
Turn on Spotify
Crank the volume to 24
So I can't hear my own thoughts.
Drive to work.
Belt all of the lyrics and jam to "The one" and "Whoa whoa whoa" and "sloppy seconds".
By Watsky.
Clock in,
Apron up,
Shout: "Morning, family!"
How am I doing? "I'm awesome! how are you?"
How am I doing? "I'm wonderful! what brings you to freeport?"
How am I doing? "I'm fantastic, peak or dark roast?"
How's my daughter?
"Well actually... I
Broke up with her mom
And I
...
Wasn't the biological father
so I don't get to see her anymore.
My manager said that customers are getting
Uncomfortable around me
because I am too open so that's the
Scripted version I have to tell you."
Even though I'd love to tell you
that I don't know how she's doing,
and it kills me.
How I told her mom that even though she didn't have any
Compassion left for me,
And she lied to me,
Tortured me more than any human
on this earth and was slowly draining the
Life and sanity out of my body
like a leech, that I
Knew what I was signing up for
when I started to call myself
Daddy.
That I was leaving her,
so we could both get
Better, but I was not leaving that little girl.
And if she would let me
Love her, or
Watch her, or
Buy her birthday presents,
I would,
because she was the best thing to ever happen to me.
when you ask me how she's doing
All I can think about
is how I earned that first "I
love you,
dada."
How I made her laugh more times than her
Mother made her
Cry. How I tucked her in
and she made me read her
"Oh The Places You'll Go", over and
Over and
Over.
Screaming when I said she'd go
On through the hakken kraks howl, and
Giggling when I said she'd move mountains.
I raised her for three years and she called me
Daddy.
But her mother said
that because I wasn't the biological father
I don't have any right to see her.
"How am I doing? I'm awesome."
"How am I doing? I'm wonderful."
"How am I doing? I'm waking up."
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
The magician waves his hand over experience and knowledge,
Recites the incantation of flight and gravity,
Power rises from the dust of the trade, illusion, distraction
Become miracles, levitation becomes reality.
Great spans suddenly shortened, distance is misplaced,
Total control so fragile, dependent no longer on magic
And spirit, now on man and mans machine. Propelling
So high, in reality and fantasy.
Experience becomes the magic wand, the incantation,
Clouds and winds become the dust of the trade,
Storms and lightning, the evil. Return inevitable,
Returned desired, the feather floats softly home.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
It wasn’t really John’s saw
that carved the branch into logs -
its blade severing rings of time.
The saw was mine but just like his.
Resting for a spell, I thought of John:
clearing his spread by the Williamson Road,
building fences, raising his barn,
or, like me, cutting wood for the hearth.
But perhaps I didn’t “think” of John at all
since he lives in each cell that I am.
He may have just stirred a little within
to recall pioneer paths we once had walked.
The long branch shortened
as John and I pistoned our arms
in unison across centuries
slicing through time and space -
stacking fuel to warm a cold winter’s night.
May, 2006
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
One inhalation of the sky
To separate the murky sea
And reassure you as you cry
The clouds still hover by your knee.
Two puffs of moonlight left behind
As products of the midnight rose
Then let your sorrow be refined
As angels let their weak wings close.
Three champagne bubbles of a laugh
A courtesy sent by a friend
A flash of lightning in the dark
Like vaulting over to the end.
Step four is harder than the rest
As it depends on nature's strain
Abandon sunshine on your quest
And wallow in torrential rain.
And halfway there it's number five
And rhythm marks a saddened truth
A little song to drown alive
A beacon in such inky youth.
A devil's dance at number six
Invest in favouring your greed
Some crime electrifies the mix
Prioritise things you don't need.
At seven let yourself break free
And choke in sympathetic arms
Unscrew the lock and break the key
Because your friends contain some calm.
Except, at eight you'll be alone
Reciting old quotes that apply
And spending hours on your phone
Relating till your eyes are dry
At number nine then, here it is
The scent of fear that smells like grace
You tune your blood to lightly fizz
And brush the tears from off your face
Ten gashes end the whole ordeal
Of shortened breath and shaking hands
Though sunsets bleed the way you feel
No one else will understand
It's not a choice, it's a command.
Now your mind is stressing less
You've cured the chaos with a mess.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
"They laugh at you because you intimidate them"
So young and naive you did not know who you are
confused your worth for being used for pain
oblivious of the fact that you are a shining star
entrapped by these ideologies of steel bars
you are told you are too weak to make it to tar
Dragged and beaten, a passion still lives that will take you far
brave enough to search for your soul, you'll soon found out who you are
As you have been made to witness death
Failure has been your tail and has shortened your length
For you have been bewitched by a predator that feeds on your strength
watching your loved ones hammered and stabbed to sudden death
you resort to camping where heaven has a tent
you have seen all you knew crumbling down like a stack of cards
before your eyes the fires of hell have been shooting like darts
your friends have laughed at your downfall and called you a ****
chances and opportunities gone leave you a worry-wart
this is the walk of shame,
***** up and they preach your name
do good and they praise your fame
unaware that you are a beast hard to tame
and the women weigh your accountability against money
you can be sweet but can you buy the sugar and honey?
you share jokes but she sleeps in the arms of another man, it's funny
you're smart and craft sharp ideas but your ***** are left blunt, you dummy
Don't you know that you lie to keep them from running?
and that the truth and being yourself keep them from coming
the walk of shame would be your fame
as they laugh at your faults and lames
if they see not a fault they'd nail and frame
leaving you wondering where the true ones are, the sincere friend and fair dame...
So you rise and it is news to them
For they only saw soil and not the seed that'd stem
They were unaware that you're being polished for your term
uninformed that they're killed, tired and drenched, by the lazy worm
that you're the deepest element that swum when they swam
the coolest bell that tingled ring and softly rang
the one impaired during production but forms in time, ***** and span
alive and upright, a driven and passionate man...
Your walk of shame astounds them then, shame shem shem.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC