"sordidly" poems
If love is selfless, I do not know love,
Nor do I reap its benefits.
I eat upon it sordidly
Waiting to see what is to become of me.
And true, it is, that love may be,
Selfless, pure, in all it's dignity
For I not know the love that is
In all entirety, a selfless bid.
But wash upon me the shores of gold,
The wanderings of the new and old.
I want love as what it is,
To reap its plenty benefits.
To find the urge of knowing when,
Dying is better than losing a friend.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
Entering a world composed of surreal images
My mind must twist itself into difficult yoga poses
Attempting comprehension of the madness
Black aprons meander in rhythmic gyrations
Under harsh soul stealing luminescence
Lubricated with coffee to perform
Menial machinations miserably
I am but a tourist
On their macabre island full
With nightmarish denizens
Of this local purgatory
The poet dreamt of no circle
As dreadfully inhabited as this sinister strata
Easily a septante of sins sordidly succumbed to by soulless citizens
Apathetic arrogance masquerading as hospitality
While decency and morality are assaulted
According to the overlords abusive schedule
I am struck mute with paralytic paranoia
As I hurriedly set my offering upon the altar
And search for exact change
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
There lived a man, a crooked man
Whose end had threatened and came
His dice were cast before he exhaled his last
Still no one really knew his name
Dawn came swift with the sun in tow
And a breeze full of fresh hale air
Morning light shone with a fist full of hope
And found the man laid sordidly bare
Stiff as a board with his hair unkempt
He wore his skin pallid and grey
His eyes closed with lips slightly parted
He'd left with something to say
In this coat, behind the lapel
Hid quietly a small unseen pocket
In it was found a quaint little note
Tucked in folds within a weathered wallet
The paper stained yellow and tattered at the edges
Suggesting that it was long and old
It had cracked with time, smeared with dirt and grime
And on it was ink written stark and bold
Know this man, the crooked man
Who seemed to meet with death in vain
See this man, the crooked man
Who finally broke free from his ball and chain
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
No force of nature, no divination of the corners
Nor the tea leaves, spread out loosely
Conveying chaos in their spiral form
Nor your heart line, dipping down deeply
Into the territory of water, selfish and wandering
Nor your telling Capricorn birth
Ruled by rigid grounding, your father the earth
Nor the eight of swords, repeated in every reading
Blindfolded and reaching forward
None of these can deter the velocity of my falling
Towards the pull of your body's gravity, refractory
Freed from any other want or need than the divination of your sheets
I'm puppet on a string, held low above your lust's steady flame
Leaning down low, dipping my toes into your karmic fire
Transported to a future drenched in the color of your gaze
Regardless of hexed hematite or rabbits foot
Lost sight of all pink candle and rosehip, all mundane and esoteric
My soul is yours, to save or spend sordidly
To toss into the shallow waters of the fountain of fate
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
The outer heart is dense
Made for nothing but defense
But every now and then, something pierces
But when it’s repairing the damage done
What of that which overcomes
It is constantly breaking through, creating lesions
So little the reparations mend
What little alive left to tend
When the tissue is dead and sordidly forgotten
Death will come from all that it's abandoned
Heartbeats constant yet instable
Will bring anyone down to their knees
Heartbeats that become unable
To liberate, only condemned to defeat
The outer heart shall rot and expose
What once was too precious to behold
Is now fighting until its last breath
Ill-prepared and defenseless still
Oft fueled by only pure will
Through all the abuse that the inner heart will suffer
None worse than sabotage by the love of another
Heartbeats lapsed, confused and fleeting
Destroyed after all it had found
Heartbeats faint, profuse bleeding
Drowning in pools on the ground
© 2015 Neal Emanuelson
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
She was in the knowing stage of being ****
Which, a century ago would be alluring
Making her mysterious and marveled, elusive
Taboo even
In this aweless, lawless digital wasteland
She was relegated to the position of commoner
A trillion, trillion pixels of poses
Not for posterity, no
More for posturing
More for positioning herself for
Instafication
Sordidly salivating as the counter clicked
Ever higher the number of persons
She didn't even like, pretending
To like her
And her
Hy-Pro
Framed low
Dreamy glow
Her self-esteem a public offering
Tethered to the hope of approval
From whomever happened to be
Wandering through the matrix
Worthiness rising and crashing
In a virtual tide of comments
Affirming her value
She cherished no secrets
Publishing her imbecilic itinerary
Instantly alerting the word
To her geographic location accompanied
With acronyms and emoticonceited hieroglyphs
Whose absurdity will baffle
Future generations of anthropologists
Should there be any living
Who will be interested in studying humanity
Once it's gone?
Who will find the fortitude
To glance away from the machine screen?
Will she be reluctant to escape her avatar
For something tangible?
The polished filtered flesh
She mistakes for her reality
Is an unending string
Of ones and zeroes
Fewer ones
An ever expanding mass of zeroes
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
We had years marked full of innocence, full of childish dreams. Often at times in the middle of night I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia, I can touch it with my fingertips and depict a full scene in my head when we were young, still creating stories, constructing our future and how we’d be under the same roof with a rustic atmosphere bound to it. I remember how we would often grow teary eyed and angry when we went a day without speaking words to each other or how our communication was lost to the business of young students, and how we’d be so content seeing one another again.
But now too often I think of the past and look back with a heavy amount of misery, bound to it the voice of love you spoke to me with promises tied in, of how we would live with one another, how we loved one another.
But that was all before our demons had caught hold of us and molded us into adults, had twisted our future into impossibilities and worries, had drained the innocence out of our pores and had us lose our heads to time and labor. As the years rolled on by, we had started to forget each other, to forget the secrets we shared and the language we created for one another – we had forgotten what it was truly like to be sordidly in love.
I look back on it now, and how we had grown estranged; and yet we both realize it, we both realize that the purity that dwelt within our hearts has diminished, that you had become a pure adult and I had followed soon after. Often you tell me how exhausted you are, how you wish life would grab hold of you and knot your final breath, how it would deafen you from the happiness you once had.
Often I tell you how I can barely feel anything between us, how the demon perched upon is has far more presence than our childhood dreams, and how, in the end, the fingertips we once held together, are now far more separate than tip of the sky and the depth of the ocean.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
In the opalescent shroud
Of this brisk autumn night
I find myself gazing sordidly
At the rippling waters of a river.
As I stare deeper and deeper
Into the dancing lights of the water
My mind spins and wonders.
Pondering my existence and worth.
Within these reflecting pools
I see myself dissected,
My being strewn across
the steady yet constant flow of time.
All the past's pains appear
As a thousand slings and arrows.
I see nothing but devastation
within these flowing waters.
Until, I'm struck with a seething revelation
that burns in my troubled mind.
That the waters of time will always flow forward
And it's direction will never change.
We are all just debris within these waters
Flowing toward a distant horizon never to be seen again
Never to be remembered.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
The mirror, consistent bystander, a defiled savior that returns
An arid eyeful of the misery masquerading in skin
The promises, unturned in the ragged nails
Of hands amongst the worn blades, desiccated with blood.
Night prefaced by sleep endeavors to hold a zephyr to never wake
Keeping a window parsed with misguiding lexis when solitary
Escapism writes itself on panes in palls of a routed exhale
The walls, sordidly stained with parody of preaching truths
Openhanded to the sheer erosion of missing self-misuse
And as the dawn reveals the path out redemption's door
The fetter of morning's mourning reminds its prisoner of its tethered grip.
© 2013
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
Yet still how the Mind would by Conscience clear
As Pickled Brains could those Sooted Clouds mop
If Facts extolled by such Roomed Degrees fear
The Elder-of-Age; Check deserve his Crop
That by addends of his Résumé, form
Match sordidly less to his Passion burn
And plomb much Skin; Past Generation's norm
Make less easy for Child Labours in-turn
Unless hammered - again - wax this *** Refuse
To sacrifice your Male for Image spent
Soon Locks will rust; In best Demand abuse
By plucking the Peacock's Magnificence.
Can you Comprehend? This Well-Minted Voice
Ask for Pile's Honest; Beg for your Fine Choice.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC