"structurally" poems
there is
a mess
about her,
fluttering
towards open
space.
writhing
below pale
skin,
refusing to sit
so structurally,
so secured
in flesh.
wildly
bending
and swelling,
becoming
the
savage
she so calmly
swears
isn’t there.
-MJS
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
Remember me as a Letter
Carefully written in order to best explain
Everything it is I could not seem to say
write me easy
write me deeply
write me only once.
Remember me as a Love Song
Structurally crafted lyrics filled with melodies
Sweeter than the first time we met
sing me to your mother
sing me to your lover
sing me to your children
Remember me as a Poem
Metaphor coloured emotions
Putting together moments amidst events
That never really happened
But we would swear over and over
That actually did
colour me purple
colour me blue
colour me Red
Remember me in your Nightmares
Think of me on those nights that simply closing your eyes
Causes fear to prickle on your skin
And adrenaline to race through your veins
close your eyes anyway
embrace the feeling of helplessness
let it help you remember
Remember me when you Don't Want To
Promise to think of me in those moments when
Remembering numbs you more than feeling nothing at all
love me easy
love me deeply
love me only once
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
I was a solid man.
A solid man with broken pieces
Pieces astrewn on the dusty floor of life,
thrown away with my own guilty verdict
No glue or wires to hold me together,
just a small tangent of sanity and veins.
Structurally not sound,
my moral compass has taken the wrong course
A course of insurmountable ill wills,
wills that would make a grown man, cry and beg.
A beggar that I see before me,
seeing myself in the mirror of near death.
That death bounds to me,
like the leather restraints of a sadomasochist
No more control over thoughts or person,
fearing what lies ahead in waiting
I waited for life to come to me,
but only saw the emptiness.
My empty mind,
trying to put the puzzle back together
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
After what feels like
a plethora of years
I've fallen in a hole
that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it
because once in a while
after a plethora of days
or hours
I am pulled apart by emotion.
No, not emotion--
the repercussions
thereof
The repercussions,
the repercussions of those repercussions,
and the repercussions of those--
A plethora of consequences
Have you ever been so stressed out
that you actually vomited?
Me... neither?
Instead I sway
from side-to-side
like a swing pushed
in the wrong direction
and as the sky turns
I make corrections
only hoping my wisdom is
"grammatically",
structurally sound--
unlike a skyscraper
pushed in the wrong direction--
As my eyes begin to burn
I wish the sky
would just stay dark
and that morning would never come
so I wouldn't have to meet
my daily migraine
nor the time of day
when I have to stop
wait
listen
learn
work
negotiate, speak, drum, impress,
produce, create, multiply
add and subtract
all in one sitting
all in one hour
every **** hour
Nor the time of day
when I start
to think
about
you.
That's when my mind
finds my heart.
They don't speak--
They just listen to one another
smiling sweet as Tupelo honey
I can almost imagine it
through the blood rushing
in my ears when I close them--
But it just feels
like a fist fight in my chest,
and the rage of it burns in my throat
and the spectators cheer them on
which resonates in my hands
which are then unable to write
which is a sad fact
that keeps my eyes from shutting at night,
at least not as soon as I want them to--
You don't have to tell me I'm crazy--
It screams at the back of my head when
you stare at me like that
thinking a plethora of
things that I can't keep in
a jar so that I can spread it
on my toast in the morning--
Saying a plethora
of things I misinterpret
to silence this
plethora of thoughts
that fall from my eyes
without ever reaching the ground
and the plethora
of grass-roots
who wouldn't know how to drink them
if they did
The plethora of times
I passed opportunities
without saying a word,
disguised them as reasons
not to say a plethora of phrases
in reply--
The plethora of plethoras
that communicate through an alphabet
of more than twenty-six letters
so that, in the middle of the night--
when I don't know what to dream about
and therefore must think instead--
it can irritate me
in more words than belong
in a dictionary.
But sometimes there's just one word
and the word that haunts me tonight is:
Plethora...
Plethora...
Plethora...
That's the flat sound of Pl-,
a soft, tender eth-
and the gasp of an -a
Plethora--
Plethora--
A hundred things yet to be said
Plethora--
So many crises
so much time
Plethora--
Not quite enough to make you mine
Plethora--
Plethora--
Plethora--
Plethora...
Plethora...
Plethora...
Plethora...
Plethora...
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
With leaders and life coaches
mental doctors
they must have discovered the
Right
way to live.
With dreams broken down
crushed into a dust,
and structurally analyzed,
they must know.
We exist from 9 to 5, monday to friday,
breathing in and out only for a
bi-weekly
paycheck.
Our lives revolve around
one thing.
Religion has taken a backseat to this new obsession
that people fight and die for.
Now, we battle over
paper and metal,
pressed into coins, printed as bills.
Kind of makes you wonder
why you are
really
here.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
It's been a while since I've let my fingers do the talking
Subtle clattering intermittent between self consuming stares into space
Strange and conventional instrumental atmospheres driving fantastical thought
And that self indulgent need to be heard by people without discernible cells
I guess my poems are a hobby of sorts
A collection of ideas, observations and metaphors put forward (barely) structurally
Though I admit the process is more for introverted enjoyment than anything direct
What my tongue would sound blurting these words is a fantasy in itself
I try to stay optimistic in them
Holding on to my passion for the positive, despite the convoluted dysfunction of the day to day
I do it with the same eyes as speaking to others, trying to be someone who's worth being around
Ending with some ******* non-committal message about an approach towards tomorrow
I hope one day I'll get around to reading these poems
Hearing what my inner monologue sounds like in that quiet but intently occupied space
Taking the time off poor sods who'll listen, hoping that the messages mean more than just metaphor
But I'll get over it if life doesn't produce such idealistic circumstances
Thanks for reading what I've written
These white spaces have given me a quiet personal realm for exploring ideas
A place where I can explore my intelligence beyond academia
Indulge my passion for the written word by pouring out gallons of ********
And hopefully make someone, somewhere, smile in the process
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
/|==============================|\
/|=====I don't burn bridges=======|\
/|===I just let them structurally====|\
/|=decay because I don't use them=|\
/|==============================|\
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 9:48 AM UTC
Though first, I evolved according to plan
Little enabled me outlive this predator
With few permanent armor plates, strong
Muscles capable of crushing
Anything, bones extremely tough,
These serious injuries go beyond
My cold-bloodedness.
I like my environment, have developed
Behaviors to control it, to save energy
That can be put to other use
An evolved entirety of reason
Is why I can go for over a year
In extreme shutdown
My own tissue will feed
On anything it can overpower
Extraordinarily adaptable
During difficult times,
I will scavenge for everything,
Digest nothing left behind
My social interactions are complicated
I primarily lead a solitary life, don’t recognize
Vocalization, postures, signals, touch
My brain more complex than that of any other
A powerful sense of perception
The ability to learn, to avoid situations
That modify me structurally
Adaptations have allowed me to thrive
But surviving human encroachment
May be my biggest challenge
Through habitat enhancement
I may be able to ensure these
Sophisticated survival skills
For years to come
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
I’ve been counting stacked bricks
running my hands over the grout,
tracing each corner with my fingertips,
building them up to cover my doubt.
You could marvel at the beauty in the stone,
completely ignoring that it fully insulates
it keeps all out and ensures you’re always alone,
can’t even slip through the cracks or the grates.
I was dying to get out from where I was in,
oblivious to my own paradise,
with a tongue in cheek and **** eating grin,
ignoring all the ways words can slice.
I’m always left with empty hands
and your court is overflowing with *****
a simple truth no one understands;
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.
I’m inspecting crumbling support beams,
running my hands and my skin catches a splinter.
It’s not as structurally sound as it seems,
but the continuing construction it does not hinder.
What do you even label an impenetrable wall,
is it a friend or is it a foe?
Do you judge it on it’s length or if it’s tall,
I guess only the person on the other side will know.
I was waiting to escape my own dwelling,
unaware of the safety it always could bring,
could I ever return home, there is no telling,
but the consensus is a no that can sting.
I’m aimlessly drifting among the sands,
and you mistake my pleas as cat calls,
a simple truth no one understands;
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.
How can you know if the grass is more green,
if you cannot even glance to the other patch?
It could be more vibrant, or just more clean,
or it could just be a perfect match.
When you know every corner and every nook,
you can’t help but feel that you’re Iocked in a cage.
Maybe I’m dismissive and should take another look,
I mean sometimes you have to re-read the same page.
I’ve seen that time keeps going on
and that our lungs continue to breathe,
but the blue skies and sunshine are gone,
I’ll never forget the day it chose to leave.
I’ll cling to all crumbs and strands,
ditch rivers and streams to chase waterfalls,
‘cause no one ever understands
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Just like so far lost
let in from the outside
remain the outsider
pushed back and forth,
then out
- again.
Fractal force[d] deeper inside this time,
bone endures and strengthens solitude structurally.
Somewhere within the sponge bone
light emits through its holes in a dark orange hue.
Proof of occupancy? Not likely.
The sign of a visitor - a miner.
An altar carved into the wall, surrounded by shadow and dim orange light, calling out to saddening self-hatred and naked personality displacement.
So cunning, so precise - a rapid cycling of self-doubt, confusion, and contempt. It's there to push me when I know better. It wakes me up when I need sleep. It breaks my will when I need hope.
The silent guide that drags me weeping...
an ancient force that makes me bleed.
Welcomed warmly and befriended willingly.
Bitter now, broken heart, reality clipped winged innocence.
Gather up the feathers and continue forward please.
No time to process this mess yet.
Now over emaciated files kept locked away.
Like a second hand gold claim - gold now gone.
Still...
I dig and dig and dig, more...
****** hands and throat sore
Crying deep with sounds like banshees
blood and tears combine in thick and dusty pillows of pain
cemented by the paste these two create.
What I've buried is so elusive, self-destructing, and sad.
Whats left is not worth the trouble: I was aware when I buried it.
But still...
I visit past traumas like old friends.
When I am especially dark, I unearth the remains and dust them gently, wrap in red cloth, and spend time in search of a lesson learned.
I've been told this is part of my gift to share but I hide it like sickness; I bump into everything I need and quickly scurry away.
Can I honor the past and let it lay?
The pain I covet only serves to perpetuate old stories and the isolation only softens my brain to social interaction.
The enemy I've chosen is always present but never within my reach.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
You muttered lies and empty threats
With the intention to collapse all that we’d built together.
Our empire was structurally sound
And flawless to the last detail
But you've crumpled it
With your angry footprints
And your inexplicable ability
To reek havoc upon the unsuspecting citizens
You created dysphoria in city streets
The muffled screams of children pressed into the breast of their mothers
Clinging to their shirts
For all the life that their tiny bodies had experienced
Appeared to be crashing down.
In a nanosecond everything changed
Our quiet halcyon would erupt into a volcano of misery
You played your violin on the rooftops
Listening to everything you had ever known and come to love, disappear
It spread like wildfire and soon your music was no more
Soon we lived in desolate silence
You and I
Spoon feeding the masses our hollow heap of endless lies
“Hush my people, everything will calm once more if you only do as we say.”
That night we all passed bitterly away
The cold overtook our shaking bodies
And curdled our blood like sour milk
My last sight was you
A sinister smile spreading across your chapped lips
“The end” you whispered, as you grabbed my hand
“Is here.”
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
From afar I stand structurally sound,
No large gashes or permanent pinkish slashes,
But wind your way closer and peel back your eyes
The rust begins to show,
Climb inside I'm slowly eroding,
And collapsing.
Most feel it's better to partially admire
From behind a series of cement structures
Only glimpsing at my strength and stability.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
That forgotten ache, that bruise faded yet still sore to the touch, the shoulder that was never quite right after the fall from that tree...
You are none of these things, no, you are a knife in my side, exactly where I pulled out the one I put there two years ago, you're my hand on the stove top, held stubbornly until the heat is too much to bare, you're the insides of my cheeks torn to shreds by my own teeth to keep me from voicing my thoughts.
You're memories I buried,
Concrete confidence and steel-infused smiles,
Structurally unsound with your sudden excavation.
You're my knuckles, ****** and raw, striking concrete again and again and again and again and again... And a few times more.
You're nights spent stirring, shifting, sleepless.
********* you're a ghost!
You're a clouds shadow!
You're nothing, a name and little more!
...and yet you're a face.
A face I forgot to forget, a face I saw today, after two years and... you're still beautiful, you're so beautiful and I hate you for it!
I saw you and I almost smiled, I almost smiled until you looked straight ahead, avoiding me with your eyes, blank-faced and silent, like looking at me would cost you, I wonder what the cost would be...
I hate that I wish you'd payed it.
So here I am, two years on and my first sight of you since...
A sighting and I'm back writing poems about you once again, how cheap the accommodation of my mind.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
Honestly, I've never felt alone
My thoughts keep hitting a depressing tone
Light in life, keep it light
Fear the dark, keep it right
People make me lose my ****
I've long since had my finger on it
There's something to be said about solitude
Mental gymnist mindset feud
I've been fed too much too long
Now its all I can taste
Fall in line or fall apart
The choice; voicless restless ill never make
Structurally sound, yeah maybe so
The footing never lets me down
But walls I cannot abide
Living life or letting die
Can't have it both ways
Shameful
What a **** shame
So ungrateful
Sitting bankrupt, linen table
I won the world and still feel
Like someone somewhere owes me something
Take the second
Grasp it
Something you would have sooner wasted
Self reflect
Can you taste it?
It might not be up to you
But either way you get to choose
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 6:10 AM UTC
i knew from the beginning
that the home we built was not structurally sound
but when they said it would cave in,
i simply laughed my most self-assured laugh
and squeezed your hand a little tighter
the day you punched a hole in the wall
was the day i slammed every door
and i suppose we hadn't built it strong enough
the roof fell on our heads
and the walls crumbled so quickly
by the time the dust had cleared
i realized i was standing in the rubble alone
you hadn't stayed to help salvage our belongings
or to see how my head was doing
you just ran with your bleeding heart
and your hand still balled in a fist
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
**I missed your poems and their beautiful eloquence
their smooth touch penetrating the walls of my conscience
I missed how they mutely speak and silently shout
out answers to my puzzles leaving me without a doubt**
*the numbing vividness of your darkness and light
the harmonic tone that steals every plight
your touching free verse like the owl misses the night
or like the sky in the night misses the pride of the kite*
**I missed the sumptuous confidence you portray
while questioning why it's the good people that life does betray
the little twists and turns, highs and lows
the scalds and burns, sarcastic arrows and bows**
*I missed the vocabulary which makes me scratch my brain
the pattering fall of letters dripping down my screen like rain
and the exceptional comic yet saddening stanzas
of structurally constructed pieces like paintings on canvas*
**I missed the flow of your torments on paper
tear after tear, weaving a mat of fury without losing grip
year after year, serenely reflecting the turbulent vapour
rising out of your heart pen ward pen ward and lip**
*I missed your pieces like the a refugee misses home
fatigued and desperate in foreign lands while they roam
physically and emotionally shredded,dead at heart
loathing, resentment coming thrown at them like the dart*
**I missed your art like the sand misses foot prints after waves
like those gone lie lonely forgotten in their graves
like lovers torn apart by destiny miss their kisses
I missed you,and your raw honest pieces**
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:48 AM UTC
hair dashing vision deploy sud featherless\
motion in active taste bud slipped on eternal\
tip of my tongue whistle lunge internally\
**** drizzle dripped seating scampi intestine\
grip swung intensity hitting uvula grump\
the bedroom slippers pajama snap running\
throat hiccups stuck doll sitting smudge crap\
pat tack in scratch mouth I due alley loop mucus\
packing trunk wood you irritate stove chappy baker\
hunk the lock spinning the sling cling on schnapps\
surviving by the beer Craving Peace of ear confession minding\
the sake of better judgement intrigue maleficent impression\
spite traditional contraceptive contradict hypocritical Kitab rewrite\
Ktab inducting paschen arrange friction pronounce tissue adjudicated\
hit or miss mission issue clevis tension ******** metabolism buoyant crevice\
sullied virginity abolishing hip ripping meat window damp moist cherry\
fur confined steed Structurally Mounting **** transcoding soil instrumenting\
matrimony ring band regent gown slapping *** crack Larry the Cable Guy wed\
Din Din Baby Fat Naming like/
be Naming Baby Shat Chat/
bei spin nozzle creek up/
drift bottleneck swifty/
dream line bleachers/
above the body top/
under tummy tuck/
wackbush stroke/
c ******** broad/
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
This is partly because of a communications network called NEON (New Economy Organisers Network).
Neither affiliated to Labour nor Momentum,
this organisation has been working hard behind the scenes to train left-wing experts, community organisers and activists
in direct action peoples power
Corbyn’s anti-Semitism crisis and the proliferation of the extreme left factions proves one thing:
The old Stalinist gang is back in charge of Labour
Those people, whose lives were fundamentally shaped by a Labour government determined to keep them out of the UK because of the colour of their skin, might be surprised to hear the claims in recent weeks, from different quarters, that Labour always has been or was an anti-racist party.
This is a label people in Labour have long claimed. And to prove it, there are particular facts they point to. The introduction of the UK’s various Race Relations Acts all happened under Labour governments. The Stephen Lawrence inquiry was established in the early years of the Blair government – crucially, though, after years of campaigning by Lawrence’s family. And even though it was often met with a frosty reception, there is a rich tradition of anti-racist and anti-colonial organising within Labour;
A little over 10 years ago, New Labour politicians were describing children whose parents were seeking asylum as “swamping” UK schools, running a campaign that declared Labour as on “your side” and the Lib Dems as “on the side of failed asylum seekers”, treating people of colour as not belonging to the nation, defending colonialism and overseeing policies that made asylum seekers destitute. And then there was the post-New Labour “controls on immigration” mug under Ed Miliband.
If we allow people to misrepresent the past by erasing the racist politics that have caused pain, economic degradation and treated people as “other” because of their skin colour, religion, immigration status or “culture”, then we won’t see racism – including anti-immigration racism – as structurally embedded and systemic. These fraught histories are ones the left, within and outside the Labour party, can learn from. Declaring yourself something doesn’t mean you are that; it takes work.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 8:06 PM UTC
Welcome to the
******* asylum
Where dreams are made
Out of shards of shattered aspirations
Glued together
With outcasted tears.
She told me once
That the Golden Years
Only come to those with
Gold in their pockets.
Angels lose their wings
Within the walls.
Structurally unsound,
Shuddering with false euphora,
A tangled mess of anguish.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
Stop me right here if I am wrong.
Let's not just continue on.
Yesterday felt different to today.
Everything is stationary and everything is static.
Not the least of which resides inside a cranial vault.
Locked up tight beneath a skull.
Held up high on a spine which just longs to rest.
And those bricks felt cold against my skin.
At least no one threw them.
At least, structurally, I am still whole.
But you never did take me for serious when i said I loved you.
You never thought maybe i wasn't lying when i told you, you were my favourite.
The only one to listen,
Just another who wouldn't believe.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 4:00 AM UTC
Found; a dying *****
Plays an off-key tune,
It's muscles are all torn or missing,
Has a hole the size of the Moon,
It's tubes are shredded and ******
Has no Rythm to it's pounds,
Just lays on the floor barely moving,
Unsafe and structurally unsound,
There's evidence of attempted repair work,
Covered in stiches and staples that ooze,
Patches and droplets of salt crust,
As well as the faint reek of *****
There also seems to be a label,
That someone has recently tried to remove,
Appears to not be surgical precision,
But that fact still has to be proved,
What is decipherable reads as,
"Please call if found"
I tried, dial tone, "number disconnected",
Seems no one wants it around,
Was left this way before Tuesday,
In the skip of apartment block 4/2,
No one has noticed it's missing,
There is nothing more that I can do,
(12/03/15)
Found; a dying *****
Left alone, not wanted around,
Desperately needing stiches,
In hands where none can be found,
(15/03/15)
Lost; a dying *****
I stopped trying to help it survive,
It's been a while, and no one has claimed it,
Now it belongs in another life,
(10/06/15)
Lost and Found; a dying *****
A vital one so it now seems,
Went back to the skips yesterday,
Found; a dead girl, late teens,
Found; a dying *****
Singing an off key tune,
Her muscles are all torn; One's missing,
Left a hole the size of the moon,
(27/07/15).
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
There used to be this hill upon which I would sit.
I'd watch the stars every night I could as they waltzed across the sky.
I watched Apollo mount his chariot and Ra he did the same.
My favorite nights were when the gods would battle with swords of fire off in the distance.
I thought about that night the night wept.
She was alone, as if it had just occurred to her.
She didn't look at me when I sat on the bed next to her.
She embraced me and cried. It wasn't the "I just found out Tiffany bought the same shoes I did" cry.
It was her heart. The pain was too much to bear.
Forever upon this hill were my four horsemen.
Pestilence, Famine, Disease, and Death.
Steadfast in awaiting my orders they heed in limbo.
And when the day comes when I've had enough.
(ok so the horsemen were just four trees in close proximity but it's my ****** hill so they're horsemen)
I used to imagine being able to walk on the clouds.
Not those whispy ones. Obviously not structurally sound.
No, those big puffy ones. Climbing over them as if they were albino boulders.
Taking ***** on my enemies. Because so would you.
I fell in love three times on this very hill.
And as many times as I paced that ****** hill.
Wouldn't you know it? There was never any love to be found.
In all fairness though. I'm not smart enough to recognize it either.
I never liked the wind upon my hill so high.
Oh sure, every time it got windy the blades of grass would break out into this impromptu synchronized dance montage.
It just had a way of distracting me from my thoughts.
I still think about this hill. It sits on high upon a sill.
It's there this hill must stay. Upon this sill so far away.
I go there in my mind you see. To bury my thoughts or set them free.
I'm taking you there one day too soon.
Don't make plans that afternoon.
I wrote those lines up on that hill. Words like that don't rhyme at will.
**** it and **** I am getting off topic!
This is worse than when I wrote that biopic.
Focus kid, I know you're high. Just make it look pretty and say your goodbye.
My lushly green haired knuckle cocked up from the ground.
It's where you find me should you need me. But that's it. You'll never need me.
Don't worry about it. Because she's up here with me.
And there are no questions. Just laughter.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
A skeleton structurally unsound
Every bone vibrating with
The echoes of goodbye
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
You stand alone
as a beacon to
every ship that
crosses your path
Structurally sound
with a powerful
beam atop your
shoulders
Life saver, house
and part monument
your historical
presence is solidified.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
Hear the buzz,
they're questioning the mountains.
The halls of decadence,
the hum resonates with sin.
Their words echo,
far beyond the stretches of our universe.
Like a chant,
like witches muttering a curse.
Do not move,
there's a dead man in the gallows.
We're on thin ice,
and the water below isn't shallow.
To fear or not,
when fear is not a choice.
Be careful when using,
the power of your voice.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC