"soberness" poems
Poetry has a sensitive soul
A drive and impulse
Telling stories the way they are
Feelings of soberness
A heart felt word
Poetry has a sensitive heart
Beautifully immense
A heart of gold
Giving values to life
Adding years to life: Poetry is beautiful
Poetry has a sensitive soul
Like streams that meanders slowly
Like a river glorious: It Flows
Poetry has a sensitive heart,
A beautiful soul; A flying Angel.
Poetry is the signal
that
The soul sends into the world
Like the river, it flows into the sea,
yet the sea never gets filled.
Poetry is the fluid for the soul,
The liquid for the yearning of the Mind
That which quenches the fire
Feeding the deepest desires
Poetry is Gold in essence
Ovi Odiete©
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
I'm looking at the dark side of the moon,
never being afraid of the cold that can blow.
Some might say the Devil wears only black
but I know differently when my powers appear at night.
I've wondered through light enough,
my time has come to dress on soberness to be strong.
It covers my skin slowly and makes me fly high
on a beautiful velvet sky.
Transforming into an untouchable Dark Angel,
not a fallen one, just one with a burning soul.
Once I lost what I'd always thought mine,
now Night brought it all back to my side.
Oh, Goddess, take me into your arms,
let me see all your wisdom through this eyes.
Let me be part of your precious shadows
and taste your water for I will always follow.
Let your energy flow through my veins,
take this blood because it isn't mine no more.
I'll dress on a moonlight gown for eternity
for this faithful servant yours will always be.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
My response to you has always been focused.
This has gladly not been over looked by you.
I have become thoughtlessly biddable and amenable for you, especially in the morning light.
I am consenting, compelled yet not obliged ..........
You have discovered I am nothing but a girl from a circus.
I never tried to hide it. You weren't looking before.
Although I am a fan of amusements, fetes and even frolics, I do refrain from favoring all tricks.
My indulgence in foolery is a sport I plan to employ for a while yet.
Do I care for you to join me and see if I can defy your desire for extracurricular activities, as well as being your carer?
Is this a task a clown would pretend was a harmless challenge.
Perhaps not, perhaps so.
My roots are raw and loyal to the art of play.
I need you to know this and hold it.
A Spanish fly will not be able to satisfy my ears alone?
Sincerity can be a sharp business sometimes.
Obedience to attachment brings around a credulous familiarity thus a dependency
It could easily keep me awake to stare at many moons
It hasn't.
You have seen me stumble and look at you gingerly more than once now
You are not even delicate but you can be shrewd even when you struggle with expectation.
There is a soberness about your beauty I find pleasingly magnetic.
When you leave me alone without your mighty graze
I without question appreciate and yearn for your persuasions and rough tenderness.
Your actions maybe more savory in the afternoons
compared with your visits to my buoyant dreams but you do kindly hold open doors.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
fear them;
for their strength
for their intelligence
for their rationality
and their unwavering pursuit of the truth
fear them
because they know more than you
because, in their strength, they are stronger than you
just like how in their clear headed soberness
they scare you
with simple truths
because of your refusal to acknowledge them
simply put
fear them
because they are repulsed by you
and can figure out how to be rid of you
and will be rid of you
when your usefulness dries
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 2:14 AM UTC
The eye altering alters all
William Blake, The Mental Traveller
in this fall
it's the sky of the eye that's falling
in the aquarium of time
fish swim in the shape of our memory
my reflection dissolves in unfolded thoughts,
in the maze of forgotten hours
a mythical hope starves the multiplicity of dreams
light colludes with its absence but
it's mind time, the burning hours let go of self-deception
there are twists and turns in our soberness
love is the art of inside seeing
how the vulnerability of truth gets expelled
by the mouth of time
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 5:53 AM UTC
A fainting pink, the color I have to resist
To stare at as we pass by the textured walls of our hallways
There isn't much he knows about her,
Except for the bottles of strawberry flavored wax
She takes and uses up within months
I dream of what it tastes like.
Not the strawberry scent she lingers on every one of his clothes
But the lips she has to polish every single hour,
Applying and reapplying
Again and again
On my bed, I hold that scent close,
That stain of wax that missed her skin,
Landing mistakenly on my shirt
If I rub it off on my cheek,
My neck,
My lips
Would it be the same?
The same type of love she gives to him,
On 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒅,
To 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔,
In 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎...
The room that stands next to mine.
I cant help myself.
That artificial sweetness on her skin teases the strings I spun just for her in my heart
When I weave my way to her through the harsh rivers of doubt to get a whiff of what could've been
A future without scented walls to separate us
But hearing her through those thin plaster barricades,
My waxy layers melt off,
As the canister holding my strawberry sacrifice calls from the basin
Of discarded chapsticks that once gave her so much joy
Give me the satisfaction
Of knowing that you're recycling this affection
For what?!
Why don't you enlighten me with capped closure
Instead of covering up essential oils with his favorite perfume
Because even when you force yourself to pucker up into unscented soberness,
You know you can't stand the blank space
Between this balm and your lips
So I'll ask of you tonight, my one and only, to please
Hold me tight,
Lead me on,
And promise to love 𝒎𝒆...
Through your chapstick kisses to him.
Sep 3, 2024
Sep 3, 2024 at 6:58 PM UTC
when i was fourteen i gave my first blow job
without even knowing what “blow job”
meant.
lips did not touch my
lady organs until i was
seventeen.
when i was fifteen i gave over fifty blow jobs,
approximately over one hundred hand jobs
and received one to ten
fingerings.
the boy at the time could only say, “you’re so good,
you’re just so *******
****
with my uneasiness and black rimmed eyes i
said little. all i wanted to do was
please.
i was sitting with a friend and as her soberness vanished,
she told me a man had never gone down on her.
i looked at her with wide eyes and when asked why,
she said,
"it’s just too weird. i don’t trust any man down there."
yet she could deliver tongue thrusts and gags left and right.
when the first man kissed my other lips,
he said i tasted wonderful, delicious, i was the drink
he savored for.
and i remember in that moment that i wasn’t just a
"girl".
i had transformed into cleopatra.
i had a man say i tasted like chicken, and i was his
favorite meal. as his tongue flickered, i would ***
inside clouds. and i wondered why this was such a
hidden treasure.
i wish for all women to be kissed, on both sets of lips.
all women to experience tongues dancing within their
insides. i want thighs trembling like earthquakes,
moans erupting like untamed volcanoes.
i want all women to become cleopatra, joan of arc,
ophelia, marilyn.
i want all women to
become
celestial.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
We are standing in line outside of something
often rebuked, yet always back returning.
I heard laughter and forgotten consonants,
its unrelenting memories of happiness
but inward grows a soberness, an awe.
Poverty gnashing its teeth like a blind cat at their lives.
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons:
editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i.
into aerodynamic informatics
for a breeze and wavy hunches true:
i wondered - would this much assure
me to buy a mandolin?
i bought a mandolin once,
but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead
i was lodged into essays
and existential qualms relieved:
entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco
to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into ****
i thought of a flirt though,
played the mandolin in scotland,
beneath a window for a vine,
jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter,
and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe
excess sight with light through
spider's diadem kept, webbed;
landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides
to counter the "debility"
of elongation instead; took two windmills with me
into don quixote, and out popped
the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing,
aged cougar.
so? my one grand delusion is a robot
precisely spelling me wok twang wrong;
i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse
to equate soberness with sanity
and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone
above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
it wasn't suppose to be you;
a trip to the woods in the night,
you eyeing me as if i was prey
and me taking it as a compliment.
seeing stars at 2am, i staggered towards you for a rush of heat-
the universe unfolding before me with the substances you gave me a hour before
instead of protecting me, you had other plans
tempting me through my nerve endings, my orifices, my weak spots.
suddenly, amidst your rough hands and pulling and shoving down my body
i am transported to a land of innocence.
the mother Mary smiles at me wickedly, god laughing and spitting secrets in her ear
the grass going from emerald green to the rotting colour of brown
claws scratch at my body too violently for pleasure and i scream "no, stop, stop"
but before i awake from my slumber filled with nightmares and childish screams
your shadow is gone, your evidence left inside me
and i cry through my heart like a stubborn child
trashing around on the floor and being bitten by bugs as
the roses within my mind die out and the smell of innocence is ripped from my chest
it wasn't suppose to be you;
and yet it was.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
In my mind you'd see frosted windows
Deep thoughts on chilly nights
overcast skies in midday
Mauve grey black and white
Puddles that fill potholes
and stars a mile above your crown
Forests of enchanting pine trees
Vivid cities and abandoned towns
Winter and blinding snowstorms
Mountains jagged yet soft and pink
Rivers and lakes and oceans
Lyrics that force you to think
It's soberness and possibility
A serene drive in silent streets
Independence and stability
Fallen leaves that parade the streets
Thoughts that wander as you do
Buses filled with empty seats
Open fields and morning dew
The first ray of light at as you awake
Simplicity warmth and elegance
And the rhythm of the breaths you take
The essential components are the spaces
The emptiness and silence
It is not a lack or void to fill
Simply memories with traces
The space and vacancy inside
Leaves room for inspiration
Gives new thoughts their proper places
Lost in thought
Lost in my mind
Lost in the stars dew and fields
but not blind
Lost in the analogy
But I've never lost my way
Accustomed to each reality
One foot in each doorway
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
Oh dear angel of death
give to me my sweet ****
A drug I need, a drug I lack
I need it now to see more than black.
Long ago I used to see more
but now my hopeful eyes grown sore.
Too much wait and too much strain
Looking for happiness is too much pain.
give now to me my drink
my tolerance is now on it's brink.
I feel uneasy with no poison in me
soberness will be my ruin you see.
I need the feeling of ***** on the rise
shroud my heart in excreted disguise.
The feeling helps me not to think
that is why I choose to drink.
I need my drug I need my drink
Inside my body let it sink
I need to **** the things inside
the dark creatures that in me hide
So give to me my Novocaine,
I need it now to keep me sane.
Paralyze my body, paralyze my heart
Because in truth I've fallen apart.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
Some days you are an abandoned building
Other days you are the nostalgia of the homely smell they have long said goodbye to
Some days your are the shooting star who fell in love with the sky
Other times you are a void, denying the law of gravity
Some days I can feel your heart singing to me
Other days you are just a dream fading
I'm ready to suffocate in my mind
Only to keep you strangled in it
Some days I can't help but wish you and I become a we again
Other days I know I have responsibilities to take care of
And my head closes in on me again
Some days you sweep me away with the strong currents of your passion
Other dayss I just get pulled under and find solace in my depression
Sometimes I'm the soberness followed after the breaking of dawn
Mostly I'm the drunk 3am thoughts
Wanting to wear your skin and crawl up to your thoughts
Sometimes I'm the irresistible love,
Only entitled to you
Other times you remember love is almost never enough
Some days I almost feel complete
When you run your fingers on all my edges and uncertainties
Other days I remember it was your surface on which I cut myself and had to bleed
Some days I know you love me and always will
Other times I write to remember you were not just something my heart came up with
Some days I believe I must carry on without you and I will,
Other times I lay awake and count the pieces of me
I left at your front door
When I could not get myself to knock
And tell you all these things
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
wasps
lazily flying around
faux red humming light,
early morning darkness outside.
and they would hold still in your hand:
crawl little up arms,
no buzz,
no sting,
no alarm
to be gently flung out open windows.
one deceased
to be inspected in afternoon soberness -
actually a wasp.
Why were they so slow?
So lazy?
So docile?
Did she tame wasps in red light?
Only the foggy evening can tell.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC
never quiet the proper arrangement,
watching a cat miscarry his strengths of
perfect balance on a fence
deciding to structure his escapism further
from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau,
and i know this is not a crowd pleaser,
no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile,
but as amusements go:
choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply
exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them
mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass
and have fed you.
so unless you think it’s cheap to state
that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski...
you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism
parabola there’s no going back... you can have
irritable bowel syndrome in the morning...
diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle
and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear
into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick
for the calmed metabolism...
i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums...
but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians...
same **** different cover story all over again...
and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat:
metabolism & alcoholism;
and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy...
like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank...
heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics,
that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote):
never come between a drinker and a newspaper
or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
I raise my hand high
because I want to feel the Sun
and keep soberness low
because I want to have fun
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 3:06 PM UTC
anyone can tire of the belittling hippy pacifism hiding Stalin in its underwear like it was the höchste lösung without nappies; because the left believes we were born with drink-hardened-bladders!
we can't fathom the new intellectuals
and their soberness
like we can't fathom the fact
that some went into battle
with amphetamines and some with
alcohol; we simply can't accept
a sober enemy, the fear of death too dragging
in a reggae of a continuum
and bedrooms' pleasure racked
in lacking a womb -
found the index imitating a fly,
and a king with it too - who's to kneel?
thus they fought intoxicated, but argued sober?
why not reverse?
why let these schoolchildren, these hitlerjungen
fight intoxicated while the bulging argue sober?
the fighters intoxicated and the politicians sober?
sombre? did i hear it right?
the berserker fight intoxicated while
while the old men squabble sober?
send the old men to fight sober and the youth
to politicise intoxicated!
i take to war the intellectual concern for
your piano and your wallpaper and your pseudo
Marxist class struggle -
where war knocks via intellectuals, war will come
and intoxication will be the new intellectualism -
where intellectuals knock for ginger
they will reap Blitzkrieg...
where war comes intellectuals exploit first...
with intellectual agitation war comes easily,
******** animal readied...
you cleave from the vacuum you created
you will meet the tailor and the barber...
so must intelligence gone to waste...
your little post-communist intelligentsia...
with us not involved come party come the new
right and dei neu nord!
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
Fire running through my veins,
blazing behind an elegant veil.
Dancing on black soberness,
laying on a scarlet closeness.
Touch the deep sole shade
where thoughts loose its shape,
so the words skip the phase
least of all, this dark red day.
Finding the sweet beginning,
the ecstatic end is what is waiting.
Be the one that I can hold,
bursting in this desire for so long.
Turn this stone into a beautiful skin,
dress it to be on the right scene,
swirling down into your soul,
aiming to your very own core.
Make all this Earth tremble,
human and inhuman becoming gentle.
This water burning on the outside,
and fire taking out the dark side.
Look at this being transforming.
Look at the virginal shape pouring.
The angel turning into the demon.
Your most hidden desire
is about to caught on pure fire.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
Just like water droplets how unnoticeable
there are unnoticeable moments in life.
Some people get to know soon, some people get to know late.
There were some moments,
lazy , confused in the air.
Sometimes a little fearing,
Smiling not knowing ,were to land safe.
Listening to sweet talks of the skies.
When i take my pet for walk,
listen to sweet talks of unspoken moments.
Falling, stumbling and getting up is difficult,
but moral doesn’t go down
lets fly the kites off.
We have intoxication of togetherness
which won’t give us medicine of soberness
as we follow the dreams
there is patrol of memories on the way
burning this black night
we will get bright morning
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
***walking down the street at 4 a.m.
can't figure out, where I am
higher then the sun, you know
so why do I feel so low?
street lights fade in and out
now starting to doubt
the sanity of my mind
soberness of my kind
i mean how can I go
when my feet are so slow?
bottles, leaves and pills
are what time kills
but is it worth the high
when inside you slowly die?
is the blur of a night
worth the live-long fight
of trying to remember your own name
when you're done playing the game?***
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
Teabags filled with starlight
Steeping in soberness at the very prospect of reality
Drinking in divine essence that culminates to iridescence
Each hue thrown across the surface of the liquid at a light's assault
The aroma of the cosmos filling the senses
Burning out as quickly as any shooting star
Erupting in a massive supernova that one would miss at a closed eye
And darkness paints the past like a starless night
But an inkling of hope is made prominent by the sunrise.
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
if you're sober and giving out
a spiritual message -
if you're sober and not intoxicated
you're just a charlatan
and easily degraded
to corrupt people's fanciful aims
at contra-globalisation arrangements -
hello, me the lesser jew
on the geographic platter,
a pole, missing for about 240 years,
ah not comparable to the jew, but still,
a twinning with other nations askew
in colonialism's ****
me? after half a bottle of ***** five beers
with one at 8.5% and now a whiskey mixer,
what do you think? imitation of soberness,
plus the additive fact i also fasted all day
and i'm hungry? **** a doodle-do.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
The world is bare and colourless
The life has been drained from all of us
Now we are drunk on our soberness
As we run through old fields that are now battlegrounds
The morphine smiles aren't enough
Drunken promises hurt too much
So i'll pump ****** into my blood
These things hurt less than they should
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
The perfume smell
I'm drawn
Each one
And each smell
Each smile
And each slim finger
I'm drawn to them
Each one with a kingdom
Each one is a queen
Each one with a story
Each one is a beautiful soul
I beat for them
Soberness is painful
To be awake
To think
They are my drug
Until I'm numb
I reach the sky
Then I fall for one's wings to fly
They are an inspiration
They are a memory
They are a lesson
They are a pleasure
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC