"shriveled" poems
Shriveled & shrunken.
Intoxicated & drunken.
Hung over & agitated.
Mild to moderate brain activity.
Common sense & basic reason lacks mental ability.
Bad with money & squanders financial stability.
Passing a psychological mental health evaluation not quite.
Kept in a straight jacket & sedated in isolation they do spit & bite.
They go through everyone's trash day & night.
They panhandle at the street lights.
They have tempers & pick fights.
Nothing they do is legal or right.
Slobs with no jobs.
They lack work ethics.
The sight & stench of them is sick.
They're sad story is lies & tricks.
Not a truth that sticks.
They cuss & their pocked face oozes ****
Their frontal lobe is filled with dust.
About telling your teacher the truth they get homicidal & make a fuss.
They drive a piece of **** car consisting of smog & rust.
Getting arrested for 365 × 3 + 2 counts of child **** is never a bust.
Keep your children away from drunks.
Some drunks get violent, beat you & lock you on a trunk.
Most pedofiles & rapists are drinkers.
Not religious or moral thinkers.
With shingles, hpv virus, ****** & boyles.
Zero morals as hideous as an ugly *** gargoyle.
Enjoy arguing, screams & shouts.
Daily drunk driving & behind the wheel blackouts.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
i felt like talking that night
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
discussing
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory
afterwards
we went to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of its history
a slight stench of ****
and dingo tongue
dripping toilet
all peeling walls
intimating births, cheer and squalor
after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we followrd each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
**** here my darlings
and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
I salvaged the loneliness
of my soul between your thighs
like a desolate dog whimpering
thanking God with every graze and ******
of your all supple shifting limbs
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips like blood hydras
laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked
smeared
with your rouge painted thighs
appearing as if half eaten
you growled swallowed and
licked big butter piggy
till your nose ran like the Ganges
gagging
eyes bloodshot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue
we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like slime silver
radiating
and finally used to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping sails
our eyelids leaden
the night mist fell upon us
muttering shadows
and our *** shriveled
like cast-off umbilici
and we fell to sleep
steep steep
buoyant
like two buttermilk clouds
adrift
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
I planted a mango seed,
Hoping?
Not sure what...
But the mango grew
Out of its context,
Poked shiny green leaves
Looking for sun and surf,
But found itself awakened
In a land of snow and cold.
Seven leaves into its
Exponential Mango growth,
The newest leaf
Yellowed...
Shriveled...
Died.
The Minnesota Mango
Meditates now...
Watered, but waiting....
Slumbering?
Planning a spring break?
Meditating?
Waiting for summer sun?
Perhaps....
Today
I heard about
A neighbor boy
Who smuggled in
A baby alligator
From the Bayou,
South and warm.
At least my Mango
Stays inside its
Crockery planter,
And an alligator jail break
Will leave him
Freezing in his tracks...
We'll see what happens
In the summer.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
A flight of three crows
added to
a dense grey day
Next add four
iconic conifers
as high as the sky
eternally ******* down
These things are
always in my sight
through my window
on this wet world
Multiply all of this
by a sweet daughter
who makes me proud
and raise the whole
to the power of a strong woman
who carries us all
on her back
The equation produces
a result that I am 95 percent certain
equals happiness
though the confidence interval
is wide
And this result
sweet as it is
and as uncertain as it is
will outlive me
leave a faint echo in time
an echo that will bounce off a star
and finally be found
gripped in my shriveled paw
long after the epiphany
nowhere near paradise
somewhere short of
the end of the line
This is a moment of happiness
stolen from time
hijacked by a fugitive
from civil society
I'll hold it close
until death pries it
without mercy
from my hand
Leaves it as a blessing
and a curse
for all who come after
Take the blessing.
Leave the curse.
That's the advice I give
with my dying breath.
And I leave this to you
from the generosity
of my heart.
With a nod to
the scant traces
of God's grace
that I find on these pathways
of travail.
Never lost.
Never found.
Always present
and generous
to all.
Be that.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Malcom was fed 16 bullets because of his. A slug kissed the jaw of King Jr. and silenced him forever. Gandhi shriveled like snakeskin. Joan of Arc became Joan of Ash- so you can understand why Melle Mel was jittery scribbling it all down, on a napkin, at Lucy's Noodle Shop in Harlem. Sweat poured into his green tea. He thought Jesus hanging from the dull wood. Heard about the poet Lorca under an olive tree, shot in the back. Everyone has felt this way through, he thought, never could he have imagined what would happen when he pressed his thumbprint into vinyl. Hip-Hop was still a tadpole. The DJ had just learned to scratch a record and make sounds no ear had never conjugated. How was he to know Tupac and Biggie would follow his lead and get plugged with lead? So he wrote it down, in big curling letters, emphatic: DON'T PUSH ME
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
Leaves wilted
Roots dry
Hidden in the unlit
corner of the room
You miss the brightness
of the morning sun
Put there
to pretty up this
bare space
Unaware
that you need more
than admiring looks
and shards
of fading light
to survive
Where did your green-ness go?
Once glorious
now brown tinged
and limp
Walking past you
I can't help
but look away
I know
I should do
Something
About you
A leaf falls
Feelings of thirst and
Engulfing darkness
Take their toll
Soon
There will be
Nothing left
But a shriveled up stem
And you'll be tossed outside
Discarded
With the rest of them
Really, I'm a terrible gardener.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
Life reduced to a ticking clock,
As shriveled men desperately clasp
To slick tomes filled with diagrams
Of shadowy glass towers, convoluted machines
And factories with a singular purpose:
To manufacture their own existence.
The Plague spreads to druidic forests
Where those who simply existed
Overcome with glutinous ambition
Demolish those majestic columns
Which supported equilibrium
While the world gleefully cheers.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
Karma?
I don't adhere to it
But I do believe
We reap what we sow
One cannot expect to have peace
When one has sown nothing but discord
Anymore than one can expect a golden crop of corn
When the planter has actually sown beans
And roots of bitterness will sure grow deep and destructive
When not thoroughly torn out of the ground
For a thriving garden must be rid of invading seedlings
Of anything that does not foster, but fights its growth
To reap an abundant harvest
Sometimes, it is starting all over from scratch
For we've all been guilty of poor gardening
Have failed as farmers to one degree or another
You wanted succulent peaches
But you got shriveled prunes
You wanted wheat
But you got weeds
To produce a healthy garden
The fruit of forgiveness must grow as freely
As wildflowers in a field
Row upon row of compassion and love
An orchard of plenty for the desperate in need
Is the most rewarding harvest to reap
It will quench the terrible thirst
And satisfy the yearning soul
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
Water filled eyes
Tear stricken face
Mascara running all over the place
Trembling hands
Vermilion drained heart
Shriveled up soul, ripped apart.
Solid enough, a single tug
Unravels each strand
As a woven rug.
Weakened and empty
Failed once again
Never enough to fight through the end.
Prickling fear
Climbs down the spine
Paralyzing each victim that it can find.
Locked in a ruthless, icy cold clutch
Struggling for air, but the suffering is too much.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Sadism
Against your dogma
Felt like a solace
Being said that,
It's a constitution
Humans vail
Agreed to their stupid conception
Made by
Their greatest grandfather
Shriveled, i say
The gyves
Yet they still asking,
Where is my rights?
And you just sat there,
Befriends with silence
Behind the coffin
************
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
Puppet Master
You crept in like a mischievious thief.
Intrigued, decieved and retrieved my son.
Influencing and destroying his beautiful life.
Diminished his hopes, his dreams and his self-esteem.
Convincing him he had no future,
No love, no value was to his life.
Your wicked silk spun web of deadly lies,
Mislead him to believe,
That happiness and love cease to exist.
This is your fuel,
This your fire.
Your one and only desire.
You will not quit until they all expire.
****** black, H or tar,
You are a seductive liar.
Your needle point claws buried deep his arm,
Dripping with your poisonous conceit.
Now you are his puppet master.
Dominating his mind, his thoughts and his words.
Your malicious acts preformed through him,
Make him look wild, insane and disturbed.
Each day in your tight intense grip,
My son dwindled and shriveled away.
Becoming your molded and trained apprentice.
Coached to perfection in your twisted ways.
You are as bad as a ******
A murderer and even more.
I hate you ******
You started a war.
I will not let you win!
Let go of my loved and cherished son.
Let him live a full and beautiful life.
I surrender to you myself.
Volunteer my own life.
Take me instead,
Be my puppet master,
Enslave me,
And let my baby live.
L. Mack
9/20/18
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:41 AM UTC
To have your body relax
Once a stiff board
Now all joints a movable jelly
Aches turn into tingles
All because of happiness
To have your face relax
Once strained from frowning
Now to have a constant smile
Your face becomes smooth
Not wrinkled with stress
To have your heart relax
Once shriveled with cold
Now warm again
Full and pumping with life
Pure of a deep red
A body
Happy and relaxed
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 8:53 PM UTC
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
Tunneling thoughts like rain
Craning through light clouds
Unsuspecting victims.
The fear
The tears
The temper tantrums;
A kind of rebuttal
That won't let our feet find land
We adjourned to rehearse,
but our efforts were null and void
Only to appease with flames
that licked our shriveled bodies
D r
i p
p i n
g
Kerosene
Tainted like ink Spilled on
Reams of paper
ruined like Christmas
A house warmed by Open flames
fallen candles Adorning
A naked kitchen My limp body,
Splayed beneath the oven
As
darkness indulges, It
consumes
The smoke, Fills
Each crevice
In your mind
Can you ever fight it
Burn your way back
To blissful ignorance.
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 1:59 PM UTC
i guess it was sort of ironic as it's a place where people to go to be treated that they couldn't properly take care of a plant. it may not have been their fault, but it was odd to see shriveled up leaves on top of the *** full of dirt, and a bamboo stick pointing up to give direction to what was no longer there. the *** itself was colorful, adorned in hues of red and blue to give hints toward the life that was once there, and maybe that's what i do for myself. i adorn myself in hues of purple, green, blue to imply a liveliness that i no longer feel deep within. to cover up an emptiness that once held some form of life, some form of happiness and innocence. it's not like i've had it hard, i mean, things haven't been absolutely bright and sunny but i haven't experienced great loss but somehow i have lost myself. it's an odd feeling, because i know i will be okay and that everything will turn out just fine but i can't believe that in my heart and i just can't feel okay. and maybe that's fine. it's healthier to express an emotion than to cover it up and hide it, because it will build upon itself until you can no longer withstand the weight and oh, god, i know how it feels to tremble and crumble underneath the weight of unfelt emotions.
but is this better?
i look to extremes to cure the numbness in my chest and i can't care if it's good for me or not.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
infliction-
pain
could I have asked for any different?
your pierced skin and deviled eyes
rippled tears
drag across the blood on your skin
its over.
where are your scars?
you've done too much damage
or so you say-
naïve thoughts
you implanted false lies
floating in mind space.
did you think of how you would die?
your purpose
and your prose
what has it all come down to?
give me more than a reason
to spare your shriveled self
prove your worth.
but there is nothing.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
It would appear that
most
Of these poems
Reflect broken hearts
and
Weighted bones.
Sitting, thinking,
All alone.
Surrounded by a happy home?
Or are you truly all alone?
Your misery a lonesome dome.
No family to scratch your back?
No bitter rival to attack?
No **** buddy to fill your cup?
So you stay empty,
Shriveled up.
I know that feeling,
Isolation.
Talk to someone,
Change the station.
There's more to life than
Hugs and kisses.
Do some drugs and
Find what bliss is.
Meditate atop a mountain.
Transform yourself into a fountain.
Let the water trickle down
Onto dead leaves that was your frown.
Or maybe torture **** a clown?
Whatever gets ya off, mate.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
Autumn is a Greek sea,
A summation of wet leaves,
Gathered wicks of sunset,
A hypocaust of warm water,
That lies beneath our feet,
Incense from the Sea of Crete,
Risen to the airy suggestive.
Autumn is a word in the mind, fallen leaf-like to the mouth,
How like the orange rind, our ancient past is shriveled under pillars.
May 29, 2022
May 29, 2022 at 8:24 PM UTC
I etched patterns into a tree with a pocket knife that had a red plastic handle
Indentions such as these never stay
Yet eternally we press against the world
Hoping to make a mark that will shine in the daylight and glow in the dark
~
*I'm a shriveled slice of the Americana pie
With my soul on a swivel and the devil in my eyes*
Life was a son of a b!tch with fists that spat dirt when it spoke
And it ONLY screamed.
~
I'm somewhere between David Duchovny and Stephen King
And I'm trying to rip up manuscripts that I didn't write and I don't know who did.
Goodnight America. My patterns will explain my existence more than I ever could.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
When the boy you like shows up with a hickey on his neck,
do not linger.
I know what it is like to be in that state of limbo
Between hope and surrender
When every time he puts his arms around you it feels like the stars have aligned and all is right with the world.
But also when his eyes brush over the cute waitress' body for just a second too long
It feels like your chest just opened up to reveal a shriveled heart.
And let me tell you that it is not worth it.
Because while you sit at home imagining his hands on the back of your neck,
He's in the back of a car with his lips on someone else's throat.
You will spend hours,
days,
remembering every little thing he's ever said to you,
And he will almost forget your name the next time he sees you.
Darling let me tell you
that you deserve better.
You deserve someone who will repeat your name in their sleep.
His hands will feel different
but they will be warm unlike the ice cold ones of your imagination.
And if you're lucky,
you will have plenty of hickeys of your own.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing ***** at her,
She leaning out of her *** toward the window.
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling ****** of a maid
Threw her, *** and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.
But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.
3.9k
There is a difference between knowing and understanding.
You know how I feel because I have told you;
I explain my emotions
and you chose to listen.
I understand how you feel because I live it.
You do not tell me,
but I understand
exactly
the emotions
that course through your
body and mind and soul.
I never chose this.
And I never wanted it.
When I tell people I am an empathic
they mostly roll their eyes.
They have no idea what I am talking about,
until I touch their skin
and relay
every emotion
of their
whole
lives.
Then they call me freak.
But I cannot help it.
Anything that feels pain I feel pain for.
When your teeth sparkle in laughter's sunlight
mine twinkle under the changing moon.
When your skin turns searing red with rage
mine glows white hot as a smith's hammer.
When your lungs burn from submerged depression
mine are right there
waiting
to release their final breathe.
There are those
who turn and marvel
like I am some otherworldly being
meant to be shoved in a glass cage
and goggled at in a zoo.
They tell me it is a gift to understand.
To that I say:
this world is no utopia.
How would you like to see every flaw?
How would you like to drown in the ocean of tears?
How would you like to experience your skin raw from all the fury?
How would you like feel the ragged edges of scars
raised as far as they were cut
with every curious brush of your fingertips?
You wouldn't.
This is no gift
unless from Hell.
In my lifetime
I have tried to make it
so the world doesn't hurt
so that I don't hurt.
Now I know;
I can't.
I can't whip the tears from each child's soft chin.
I can't massage the ice from each man's shriveled heart.
I can't dowse the flames from each woman's fiery tongue.
I can't.
The only thing I can do
is change my position within this world
in an attempt
to heal my scars.
And I am not sure which soothes my pain more:
surrounding myself
with those from whom I receive the most
sorrow and anger and dread
because they
understand me;
they can help,
or
engulfing myself
within the entourage of those who always smile:
to drown out all the pain
and push the world aside.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
3.6k
Moist
Boist
Loist
Mad chat
Shriveled cat
In a bank
Being dank
Staying moist with meh boi
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 9:54 PM UTC