"stigmatic" poems
If love is pain and pain is pleasure,
Then these bruises she shall use as,
your affection measure.
To visualise love,
To feel your feelings,
To sense it as her wounds are healing.
Seeing, hearing,
Following Your scent,
To know just what it represents.
She’ll take the leap,
relinquish control
As further she delves down your rabbit hole.
Enjoy the journey
but were’s the destination?
Your marks, your love? The correlation?!!
Some want to hurt,
some want to bleed.
To watch the inner anguish freed.
A world, a life,
A religious order?
His canes the relics to to this mental disorder.
See external pain,
is internal anaesthetic,
His marks she believes to be truly stigmatic.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
The Poet is the language,the mystery of Monalisa's smile,
the brush of Caravaggio and the finest painting of Vangogh.
The Poet is the sonnet of Mozart anf the symphony of Bach,
a tragedy of Shakespeare and the saddest verse of Pablo Neruda.
The Poet is the blue Danube in waltz and the Swan Lake in Ballet.
The Poet is the renaissance of passion and the remnant of life,
the dilemma of morality,the shadow of deed,and the ombra of sin.
The Poet is the fantasy of each Sunrise and the illusion of every Sunset,
the wave in tide of wishes,carried in a bottle to dune drunk shore.
The Poet is the believer, dream lover in a hot passionate crazy affair,
the magician who creates fables and fairytales from a deadly reality.
The Poet is the worker who works and works to survive,to cope in this
demanding,sophisticated,stigmatic concrete hypocratic world.
The Poet is the thief of time,with eyes flutterin on late nights,
Still loyal to the pen,His thoughts in verse,bleedin fragranted words.
The Poet is an Omnipotent servant,with a will to ask and crave to learn.
A Philosopher,whose always an amateur in the pursuit of wisdom.
The Poet is an eternal slave of His Muse,the beverage of inspiration,
the spouse married to literature,adulterer of lyric,deceiver of prose.
He Knows no lapsus in all that is scandalous,royalty or sacred.
He is the artist, musician, actor,the clairvoyant of destined paths.
He is the cheap clay's mold,carved in the sculpture of the next century.
The Poet is the unfinished book,the chapter in yesterday,
He is the Nobody of today and the bookmark of tomorrow.
T H E POET IS YOU ! ! !
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
They will speak of me in a downward tone
with a voice of mourning upon the funeral of dead soldiers
they will sing of me in avant garde with octaves hitting the lowest
pit in the fires where souls banish and come back for continuous agony
hands reaching out of a purgatory living in the walls of this asylum will
move in rhythmic patterns of a high fashion and a noble art
elegant and unwilling, shaking and drilling
breathing you will see the souls of these anarchists rise
from the stigmatic allure of their concentrated assets
reaching out as if to hold back shunning all the disbelief that pain is the
obscured enemy of this life, when all he teaches is the appreciation of happiness
violence and how it intricate's a human welt
barred in chains of a forsaken emotion
deeply rooted in the hearts of a barren people
I will speak these words forever as I walk through a muse of history
with each second that passes I will preach my sighs of a
hopeless pain
I will refuse to lock myself behind thick wooden doors inside
when it rains
my diary leaks with its tattered and frail pages symphonies of a deep
understanding on what is hidden in the eyes of those humans
who spark my deepest curiosity in the gazes of a mournful living
a light tap on the shoulder and I will drop and show you how these things bleed,
like animals spirits hunting and killing their unseeing prey
there is no survival here only a continuation of evanescence and death
and moments of a calming laughter in between
exposing myself to life's blood time and time again,
and a acquired taste for wisdom
and that deep pit that the miners of life dig through me to find my diamonds
and when they do, I am happy
but the hole goes in so deep that I am left with no breathe and I am drained of life
so that I may wake up in the morning anew and lively again
come into me and speak to my reaper
so that I may expose the divinity that I
hide away in my jewelery box of art and criminal behaviors
a Victorian and bizarre mistress
I have held the hearts of many in between my man like hands consumed by a womanly fragrance
my neck pulsates, and you can see my veins
I tear down these curtains
they will speak of me and how I have no shame
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
Writer's blocked, nose,
Mind's half stigmatic.
They say one day you'll resemble a rose,
I could never get past growing thorns.
My pen trails over memorable tales,
Of frail dead friends.
Days and days of nothing,
Starting to blend.
Slaving over thoughts,
Not thinking of words,
To reconcile,
Dead and dying nerves.
My mind is a swimming pool of fiction.
Drowning just happens to be my latest addiction.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
That dandelion puff called memory
Floats through consciousness' treasury,
A needle in the haystack when sought,
Stigmatic and lingering when not.
Remembers most foolish dreams,
Forgets life's numerous themes.
Fragile and crumbling with time,
Yet unyielding without reason or rhyme.
Men has tamed every beast,
But not his own memory, though least.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
I've a sui-generis tendency to ape
that sainted cat from Assisi who lends me
this moniker with mouth-confounding interests.
I cop ascetically tasteless means for living
and an auto-inflicting knack, but we part
weepy ways at the nobler wherefore of his arts.
He self-stigmatized for Faith, I stab at lesser
Love's tortured metaphors, and my plump palms bare
only the throb of a heart foolish for one once gripped.
Move on I must, wholly hand-in-hand with hag Hope
to cajole a jab by bumptious Charity,
touch of her tip flushing blues from my fleshy side.
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
some days I look at my wrists and see the almost invisible scars that hardly show but are still there.
it's funny how something that is only triggered within a moment will stick with you for the rest of your life.
it's like a mark telling you, look what you've overcome.
but at the same time
it almost looks inviting.
hey! one more scratch won't hurt..
right?
but what is it that makes me hurt so much that I need to see and feel the pain in some other place than in my head and my heart?
why am I still broken?
is it him? is it them? is it the rumors and the reputation? is it the broken love and the broken heart? is it the longing for home?
I'm broken
and I don't know why.
I want to blame it on him but I'm the only one to blame.
it's all on me
me.
me.
I wonder if people can see my scars.
do they notice them when my arms get red and they stand out like white stripes?
what do they think?
I hope that they care
but who am I to think that they care?
does this stigma define me?
what defines me?
should these lines really be considered stigmatic?
right now it's me against the world
and whenever I look at those scars
that's why I feel a trigger
because when it's you against the world, you feel alone, ashamed, misunderstood, sad
sad.
sad.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
I pair my hands side by side
the servant that I am
I am nothing but that
and I give thanks in the most kind ways
that I did not brake the way I thought I would
after your stigmatic body passed through mine
your poise was perfect
and you walk with your hands trailing behind your back
pointer finger slightly extended
the orchid swan
holding in her tongue
holding in the poison
no architect could have built our castle
ancient ruins falling atop each other like
the moon falls into my scorned eyes in the midnight
when I sit with myself
when the ache hits the center of my black lungs
when the melancholy sighs to me
as if her pain is greater
when I know that the true haunted king
sleeps in my stomach
arising and coming out of my throat
every so often
while I am sitting on the bench
while I am leaning on the wall inhaling those gray fumes
while I am reading my book
that is when that king comes to me
and wraps me in his hopeless melodies
of the days where we shared the same lips
and all I can do is give thanks
that I did not brake the way I thought I would
that the wound though alive
and breathing with its open sore of reds and pinks
pearls and hatred
did not slit me in half from head to toe
I know with my skin that you take pride in my pain
somewhere in your days you sulk in the compassion
that I hurt for you
it makes you feel wonderful and special
it makes you feel unique and beautiful
that me, who has had love conveyed to me in a thousand tongues
sits here alone like a cement column numb and baring nothing
receiving nothing, maybe simply existing
if that
you tread your eyes upon these poems
knowing in your darkest place that they belong to you
knowing in your darkest corners that you tore me
knowing in that part of your soul that stood naked in front of me
and how that part hid and wore a cloak of white
as to distract me from those short comings where you left me
with a welted heart here on my pillow
gasping for air
that would rather choke than be held by you again
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
I am the master of my destiny,
But it’s difficult to know what I’m destined to be,
So I mastered the skill of poetry in hopes to invest in me.
Thus the power would be vested in me,
And I wouldn’t have to submit to anyone else
To get the best of me.
My words are disturbed,
My belligerent inflictions are deserved,
My fictitious non-fictions are just misheard,
My religious depictions are called absurd,
They rage savagely as they say, “Blasphemy.”
To convey opinions is a task for me,
But if you’re asking me to speak rationally,
Don’t be mad at me, when I ration radically.
My passion was passionately
Passed to me by a God that has to be a part of me,
Or at least partially inside the art part of me.
If He is an entity totally apart from me,
Then why does this feeling remain in my veins?
And please do explain these pains in my
Feet, hands and scalp around my brain.
You say it’s because I’ve been walking all day,
Trying to find my way because I’m lost always,
And all the ways that I take
Bring me back to the same place.
So I sit and write all day until my fingers ache,
In hopes to eradicate my hate and vacate
From this block, city and state
And cop pretty estates.
But writer’s block stops my speedy escape,
I scratch my head until it bleeds to my face.
Still you choose to have hate for my stigmatic fate,
And feel you must take from my ecstatic state,
Just because you frustrate from my enigmatic style,
Then throw sticks and stones to shatter my smile.
Your words won’t hurt,
And flipping the bird don’t work,
And you would never bother to flip through my works.
You just flap your lips and let the whip go berserks,
Until it strips through my soul after it rips through my shirt.
Society is real quick to crucify,
But in this life
It’s do or die
And I refuse to choose to die.
I remember I used to lie
Because my truth was too shy,
But now I’m used to life,
And realize there’s no use to lie.
As I lie on the crucifix these cruel critics fixed upon me,
Just know that I wrote it how it was supposed to be.
Even when I die my fans will be excited to know it’s me,
Resurrected anytime they decide to recite my poetry.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 12:17 AM UTC
On this rowdy night
I’ve decided not to succumb into
The belly of my monstrous feelings.
I’ve decided not to let go of all that’s real
All that’s what at the basis
Of my loathing
For your flawless diction.
You’re perfect. You’re perfectly perfect in your demurely
Stigmatic allure.
Why is it so?
On this long and windy night
I’ve fought the urge
To run into the arms of a bottomless pit.
Who wants to jump off a cliff, anyway?
We are not race horses, straddled in fear
Sweating with desire to cross the finish line
Sweating with a pain to finally breath.
I am who I am,
And what’s going to be is probably
Going to be.
I am a dreadful mess,
A creative outlet for your inhibitions.
I’m a loud, piercing shriek
In a sea of muddled screams.
On this lonely, warm night –
When my keys can’t find the way to your door
I’ll wander outside your steps
I’ll dig in your backyard,
I’ll bring down your proud trees.
On this night of all nights
I will make my piece about us
And the peace will finally travel
The shrinking space between my exhales
And your silence.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
Face twitching in laughter with spilled blue ink stored eyes that await the drought. Laugh it off and hold your structure from breaking down. The child in you is shifting between bedridden negligence and swell spent playground evenings. Dragonflies circling your abdomen - you\ve been nervous; ached for the past flash light of years. A guilty mishap shaped by a mother’s palms and dusted off by a father’s words. Her mental abortion, and his physical disappointment; The stigmatic product. Such black thoughts will fade into the whiteness of snow, but happiness is eventually cursed with superstition. Those who crossed you breathe, while you barely manage your way to it. About to tie an apology around your neck, it occurs to you, how just yesterday you thought to yourself exuberantly that hot showers on sunny winters are to live for; How ironic.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
a kiss
sealed lips.
sunset; streamy fountains
the girl, the boy
the love.
Shakespeare's essence
magnifying the words, bring meaning and volatile to youthful emotions!
Venus's stigmatic traps
the viewing art of love making.
unforgettable sins that took place in its current state.
no regrets
how could he ever save her from the devil its self?
this is why the sun and moon never sleep.
one of the them always needs to keep an eyeful on the other one.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
Remember when instincts were all that we had?
We successfully navigated danger on the daily.
Now it’s conditioned perception and status quo,
Pushing us further from —
— all-natural understanding.
A key unlocking
basic gifts. Given
without a care.
We are born with all we need
To feel, know, and learn + explore
But with cognition and expectation
We betray what we know. We accept
Designer culture and stigmatic classes.
I don’t want to believe
In anything but myself
Because I know I’m here
But I can’t say for sure
About anything else.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
I held you in my arms
Tight as it may
Your eyes held shot
As you convulsed a stigmatic farewell
I sniffled you a goodbye
I could feel my eyes melt
I squinted back the tears
My heart held.
I held you in my arms
I called upon your keepers
Their white coats flared the air
As they scrambled here and there
Frantically and effortless
I sat and stare gloomy from a chair
Grieve gripped the air
My heart held.
I held you in my arms
When you gapped your last breath
Stiff and lifeless you lay there
Peacefully in the mournful arms of death
I sniffled
I cried
Questions in my mind
You were not there
It was pointless
It was hopeless
My heart held.
I held you in my arms
Now you're six feet in the ground
It's been a numbered years
But you're not here
Once my heart held
Your absence is felt
But we must live
Even after death.
Heartbeats
Thump! thump!!!
Life after death
Is it the beginning?
Or is it the end?
Jan 11, 2024
Jan 11, 2024 at 7:15 PM UTC
If we don't forget about gender when enlisting
Then its just sexist at the top of the list
Looked down upon by the rest
Domestic violence on the silence
A norm, abnormal only in the proximity of culture and nature
Weak is a class of discouragement
Here is a voice to help you speak up and against
Physiology has less role play while its the psychology which pays the pain
With an extra bonus of shame
First front page "man got *****
Laughter gets center staged
Stigmatic isolation on the front cover
Muscular has a tough symbol to it
Love is never equivalent to the violence
It doesn't trigger anger and root it on you
Emotions come into motion for and against
but for man is trash
Femininity is a community shield and
Not a toxic challenge to demonstrate equality
Primitive thinking of comparison reasoning cant still constitute
True law is a protection bill on all human rights
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 3:10 AM UTC