"stifling" poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
94k
I have known that the sun can hear thunder
and how its brightness
can be unfathomable,
like my dreams.
Since the beginning of my pulse
I have been honored
with good days
that left me grateful
inside of the sweetness
never stifling.........
within all it means.
When midnight kisses the glass
that morning has already
tasted......
Like a thirsty spider
crying out........
for the rain.
All of my senses are
swept through
knowing, my words don't fall
on deaf ears......
or stand there,
all wasted.
No, you cannot know how I'm feeling
but that doesn't mean
our world's stopped spinning.
The sun.......
can still hear thunder
in all the ways you love me.
You lift me up
in the midst of a storm.
All my senses are swept through
my words stand in stillness
a storm's ending......
is love's beginning.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 8:14 AM UTC
A bleak motive, turning in a black backwards motion.
Fluent in rushing, pursuant in the crushing.
Ebony wood, the serenity compared to the knife.
A stifling recollection, within the house of corrections.
Was it a natural selection, gazing within the angel's reflection?
Garbed in white, and in her conviction.
A change of direction, now...
The resurrection of our mutual affection,
Was it over protection, or was it just mental rejection?
The pain was only an imperfection, built within all our disconnection.
My sense of direction gone within your vertical selection,
left with words- sharp like a needle;
sticking an intravenous injections.
So, should I offer my protection? Moments, within sight of the point of intersection?
No, keep on...
Keep on spreading the rejection infection.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack
they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined
and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
On my skin I wear the bands of shielded sun.
Commitment to the heart makes this skin colour run.
With one liberal hand, I tear down these branches being hung,
to shower in yellowed leaf confetti.
These forest roots ran like hair line skull fractures,
under canopies blooming red from the sunlight rapture
and now these trees leave their taller brothers to fall as ashes,
with ivy on my ankles, stifling hope up to my chin.
Living memories, my forest sheltered, scrambled for home;
small pretty beasts, unrefined, breathing caricatures with bones.
Screaming they beg for attention, inattentive to this situation as a whole.
Our own view is all we can consider.
This house of cards built on paper-cuts, from the trees before.
I'm now growing wiser to my winter freeze and your summer thaw.
I need all of these things I hate about me, and they can never be ignored;
a psychological pre-disposition, the only one I can afford.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
Crash
Amnesia blaring in your ears.
Piano running through its arpeggio
as you hear muffled questions being
shouted from a distance.
Take off your helmet.
Remove your ear buds.
Open your eyes to a disgusting amount of dead valley sky.
It's time for you to sit up.
Engine still puttering like a champ.
The stranger mutters something like,
"That's a lot of blood. Are you ok?"
Stifling ***** and a laugh you reply,
"Feelin' fine. Never better."
You notice that he's still in his car.
He didn't even roll down his window fully. This is the extent of help or empathy you've come to expect.
The taste of iron fills your mouth.
You spit. Crimson.
You smile. Fake.
You wave him on.
It's time to work. It's a process.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.
Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there!
Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes,
taciturn miller,
night falls on you face downward, far from the city.
Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing.
I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you.
My life before anyone, my harsh life.
The shout facing the sea, among the rocks,
running free, mad, in the sea-spray.
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.
You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now.
Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses.
Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.
It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.
Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes?
Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
Hour that is mine from among them all!
Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.
Shaking of all the roots,
attack of all the waves!
My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.
Thinking, burying lamps in the deep solitude.
Who are you, who are you?
14.4k
From the ashes I descend,
Rising among the flames,
As shades of red.
Orange and yellow,
Blend within the explosion,
Of my rebirth,
Claiming my life force once more.
My deep hazel eyes,
Drenched in golden brown,
Surrounded by a burst of jade,
Speckled with dark green,
Reveal my humility,
Compassion and genuine kindness,
Allowing you to behold,
The window to my soul.
The vessel,
Containing my spirit,
Conflicts with the feminine demeanor,
Exposing sincerity,
Comforting hands of a care-giver,
The voice of loyalty,
Gently escaping lips,
Tears of empathy,
Seeping with understanding,
Kisses of affection,
As soft spoken words,
Depict desires,
Hopes and the warmth,
Of pure love.
Mystery envelops my origin,
Becoming a mystical being,
With the ability to heal,
The potential to inspire,
Living proof of an alleged myth,
Yielding in protection,
As my plethora of feathers,
Shield the individuals I adore,
From darkness,
Attempting to swallow the light,
We yearn to discover.
Blind Thoughts of denial,
Shall forsake your eyes,
If you pass judgment,
Upon me,
For my cloak of skin,
Concealing my true beauty.
As a Phoenix,
I refuse to watch,
The children of diversity,
Suffer degradation,
Living in fear of discrimination,
Stifling the right to love another,
To dress in garments,
That correlate the body with the mind.
I shall rage to cease,
The hands of violence leaving bruises,
Ignorance stripping,
Breaths of air from a pair of lungs,
As homophobia,
Transphobia, and intolerance,
Deplete individuality from a heart,
Deserving liberty,
The pursuit of happiness,
A chance to survive.
The Earth returns my soul,
To reap the love,
Concealed in assumptions,
And sow acceptance into,
The fields of society,
As I continue,
To soar into a cerulean sky.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
Abuser
Simple pleasures
Causing pain
Building up
To strike again
Draw them in
Shut them out
Weaving lies
Creating doubt
Love to take
But never give
Life expected
Not to live
Stealing hope
Stifling breath
Broken promise
Courting death
Cruel intention
Deed is done
Self-inflicted
Sparing none
Cori MacNaughton
8Apr99
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
The blood in my ****** runs on the pure waters of the river
The blood in my ****** smells rotten like the person who ***** her
The blood of my life runs on the white of the cloud ...
The blood in my ****** smells like the baby I abhorred
The blood in my ****** smells like the curse of being a woman in the world without equality
The blood in my ****** smells like the mouths of women stifling rights
The blood in my ****** smells like ***** girls
The one of my life smells bad like the men who force their daughters to marry
The blood in my ****** smells like *** of ****** exploitation
The blood in my ****** smells bad like pedophiles.
The blood in my ****** smells the future. The blood in my ****** is female liberation.
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 11:50 AM UTC
Last night I
had a dream that
you died.
Everyone we knew
came, said their I’m-so-sorry’s,
and
left, filtering out the front door
slowly
like sand through a sideways sifter,
leaving behind pieces,
words and memories
and casseroles I
could not taste.
And the whole time
everyone was here,
you were here, too.
I could hear
you, smell
you, feel
you.
I could feel you
surrounding me like the ghost of the baby blanket
I once had and could never leave at home.
I loved you here and here you would stay, with me,
and now you would never leave.
I could keep you.
You were bound to me.
But the ties that bind are tight and you did not like me leaving.
You could not go with me and
you
accidentally
and without words
by holding, enveloping,
suffocating
you told me
that you did not want me to ever leave again.
So I stopped.
I stopped leaving.
And the calls stopped, too.
The invites. The lunches. The impromptu trips to town.
All unnecessary noise.
The people left. And then it was just you and me.
Until one day I saw what you had done.
Tripping
I glanced in the mirror and saw.
You had etched yourself into my face.
Dug with your nails
terrifying ravines
escaping the corners
of my eyes. Pulled down
my mouth and every
shallow natural valley turned to
deep empty bowl, hungry and wanting.
My eyes no longer held light.
I saw this, all evidence against you,
and I still loved you.
You had hurt me in ways you never had
while you were here – here – and I knew.
And I still loved you.
Slinking up the stairs
I called you to me. I felt you surround
faster than before and
closer, tighter, colder.
Suffocating, stifling and
so destructive in how you loved me.
Slowly but faster
I grew to know
I would not become you and
you would not become me.
We were stuck on other sides of the mirror.
I was so angry
at what you had allowed me
made me
begged me to become.
Realizing
I gasped and put
hand to heart
it hurt so.
I stood upright
how long have I been bent
took in one long deep breath of stuffy air
how long since I opened the windows
and called you to me
when have I last heard a voice not my own
called you to listen.
I felt the loss of everything else
friends
family
adventure
excitement.
Nothing was left of that here
and I was so angry
and I am so sorry
and I yelled
I screamed
I roared
why are you still here
why are you making me like you
why did you come here and
hold me
and keep me here with you
I am not the one who is dead
and I said
and I regret
and I am so sorry
I can’t have you here
go away
and
leave me alone
and you did.
You left me
all alone.
Why would you leave me?
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
First came the false presumptions of luxury
The gaudy glamour
Bright dresses and dark suits
Awkward glances and ****** food
Eventually though
The evening settled down
And then, after the smoking and drinking
Came 1 o'clock, the worn-out end of a hazy day
Suddenly,
It was a smother of time,
a stifling landscape of clocks
a decaying of darkness
The night gave way to trembling cold delirium
And slow and slow down
A slide from reality
Everything fell
I remember barely a glimmer- a hand, an arm, red sheets somewhere
Eyes that whispered "what's wrong with her? what's her deal?"
Or worse yet, faces that didn't care
To see me, my wrists
Appalling in all their shivering shaken chill dust
In moments like this,
I am nothing but a fearful machine
Broken in its deepest workings,
All function altered.
Clamors and tremors of panic
Withered illusions gathered at my feet like kittens
I tossed the blanket from the makeshift bed
Lay upon my back and waited
Watched, frightened, the night revealing
The hundred ignoble, vile images
Of which my thoughts seems consisted of
They flickered at bit- against the burgundy hammock
And empty Baccardi bottles
2 o'clock shook the memory
A crowd of twisted things,
Torn and stained and coiling about my wrists
I move by the sway of these thoughts that are curled around me
-The notion of some infinitely suffering thing
Oh I only need a lighthouse
To guide my soon-to-be shipwreck home
I only need a compass, a crucifix, a presence
But never
never to be found
the way
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
Once it started opening up,
Like a wound, the pearl sheen of skin
deepening into a red
As rare as the perfect rose
And just as treasured.
Bones dense around my heart
And lock themselves in place.
Stifling the voice - two beats -
The third one silent.
The fourth,
The fifth,
The third.
You are my arms outreached but selfish,
Hands open but stiff,
Palms red.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
In the dark
We trudge outside
Stifling yawns
Dogs in stride
Down on the dock
The air is cold
Blankets laid out
My breathing controlled
We snuggle together
Then gaze at the sky
The fog drifts in
The stars feel shy
The dogs roughhouse
One is called home
The other two stay
Niko begins to roam
A cold breeze creeps
Turning my nose blue
The horizon has a glow
Will the lights come through?
The air feels so clear
The ocean so calm
The trees are obscured
An owl starts a song
A dog comes near
She licks my face
Then curls by my side
Like a warm embrace
The stars still flicker
Even if shrouded
The lights on horizon
They become clouded
My eyes start to close
My family is here
I’m surrounded by beauty
The lights disappear
I don’t want to leave
The dog is so warm
My sister’s behind me
I feel her small form
She’s curled up tight
Between momma and me
She’s wearing my hat
And complains she can’t see
I don’t want to go
I could stay here forever
Between the dark sea
And the foggy sky weather
Niko starts whining
What a complaintive old boy
But he’s right it’s late
His bed will bring him joy
Reluctantly we rise
And gather our things
Then we trudge back home
Sleeping till tomorrow sings
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my w3tb@ck.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?
I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.
The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.
I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.
I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?
With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
Alone, I sit with my feet
propped in front of the flames.
Heat pushes along the curve of my instep.
Bug spray coats my legs and arms, stickier
than sweat, which flows like raindrops down the back
of my neck, pools in the valley between my *******
Even the air feels too warm in my lungs.
Games and night walks do not appeal
to me as I sit in stifling confinement without
a cool breeze to whisper relief. Suffering the fire pit’s front
row seat wins over stretching my lips into insincere
smiles, watching, but absent, while
my friends talk of a life
I try to forget.
Snickers buzz up to my ears.
I lean my head back
as a whole pitcher
showers me with
arctic salvation.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
The evening's still and quiet
and the katydids abound.
The flag is hanging listlessly
as I listen to their sound.
Desultory the summer air,
as though the world awaits,
"Something evil this way comes."
the foe is at the gates.
A feeling of impending doom
accompanies the air.
Nothing moves.
A stifling presence hovers over there.
Like a blanket, smothering
t'is much too hard to breathe.
And yet, my arms are paralyzed
and sword, I can't unsheathe.
I watch as shadows gather
in miasma up the street.
A harbinger of evil
with an odor, sickly sweet.
I feel it getting nearer
and my heart beats fast with fright.
What imagination ...
on a stifling summer night.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
Some say you can't read someone's thoughts.
Some claim to read them like a book.
It's phantom pages may engage
but I move on from thought to thought.
Those readings choke like a bindweed cloak,
coiling, twining, transmuting brutes.
Stereotypes shape many folk,
stifling, stunting valuable fruit.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Right before the thunderstorm
Clouds of grey line the sky
The breezes stir even a little
And rustle through the tall, tall pines
Leaves are scattered on the ground
The scent of rain fills the air
The stifling hot summer day
All of a sudden cools off
The wind picks up
And the sky is black with rage
Green leaves and twigs and small branches
Are flying through the air
Lightening flashes vibrantly
And thunder follows right behind with a crash
That ear splitting "boom" makes me jump and cringe
Rain suddenly pours from the heavens
And it roars upon the roof
Raindrops wash the porch
Of any dust or summer dirt
The ground tries its best to drink the rain
Yet still leaves puddles all around
The sun shines and then fades again
And the sky turns blackish-bluer still
Until that familiar sound of thunder
Startles me and makes me frightened
Thunderstorms are dark, yet lovely
And scary, yet beautiful
I guess I like thunderstorms
But just am afraid of them
~Marian~
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
It's like that time the windows blew open,
And the gust carried snow in towards us,
Us huddled on the couch under that calico crocheted blanket,
And I looked at you, corners of my mouth pulled down,
And you,
You sighed, and shrugged,
Removed your arm from around my comfortable shoulders,
Struggled up and over to wrestle the pane
And lock the shutters,
And when you sat back down, you looked at me,
And all I had to do was smile.
It's like that time when we packed a picnic to the park,
And we only made it so far as the lake
Before our stomachs rumbled and your grumbling gave us an early lunch,
And then after, lay in the grass, pointing out
All the obscurities of our imaginations in the clouds.
It's like that time I came home,
So tired and worn out,
Hair askew with a smudge of dirt on my cheek,
And the lights were out, but you had lined the hall
To the bathroom with candles,
And as I made my way through their soft, whispering light
Towards the escaping tendrils of steam,
You jumped from the dark,
Stifling my shriek with a hug.
It's like that time I realized that I loved you,
It's like that time right now.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
Oppression, a monarch with a crown,
Limits resources in every town.
No reason to hasten, no reason to strive,
Content with meager offerings, barely alive.
With corruption and barriers abound,
Progress is hindered, hope is drowned.
The bright minds, afraid to take flight,
Chained to the system, a slave to the night.
No greater malice than silence so deep,
Stifling progress, and secrets keep.
Perfection in negligence, light in the shade,
Obfuscation the art, truth to evade.
The God that troubles, the tyrants that bind,
Crushing brilliance, dulling the mind.
In quiet desperation, with hopeful elation,
This poem, a message, a call to liberation.
May it strike deep, may it shake the ground,
May it expose the corruption that's found.
May it pierce through the veil, and bring forth the light,
May it break the chains, and set things right.
The oppression, corruption, and silence enthralled,
May they all fall to the might of my words so bold.
May it be a catalyst, a spark that ignites,
A revolution, a change in sight.
I hope my poem strikes a mighty blow,
A wakeup call, for all to know.
The power in words, the power to call,
I hope my poem, I hope my poem kills them all.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
My parents...
are immigrants
Yet, why is it I,
so strongly
reject
their once,
homeland?
...
Perhaps,
the cause
it rooted at
my dad's cynical
comments
and critics
...
Perhaps,
it's my own visits
stifling relatives
horrible traffic
definitely
less, comfortable
...
Maybe,
it's the rejection
of such a gripping
religion
when I myself,
am an atheist
...
Maybe it's
the stereotypes
Chaining me
enclosing me
irritating me
...
...
...
Whatever the case,
it's there
I can be whoever I want to be
what-blood-crap?
Go far back enough,
and we're all related
The only links I have,
are my visits
and influence
of my parents
who once lived there
...
It's not a bad place...
at all...
...
That's not the problem
...
Is there one even?
...
...
...
I,
can be
who
I want
to
be
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
My being craves a sun so vibrant
an unwinding summer
for my wilted heart anew
Heat that gives the air such humid kisses
leaving it stifling, sweet, and sticky
Rays of fiery gold
that pierce my cold, pale, and weathered skin
Rushes of warm air flowing over my body
heating me up
burning my skin
melting away my makeup
and carrying away the emotions
that I wear on my sleeve
My heart is eager
to be naive, carefree, and open
I long to be freed
to burst like an overripe plum
These walls I’ve built up
are ready to fall
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC