"superimpose" poems
I believe too much in my own Insignificance.
I spend too much time drowning out my own voice with alcohol.
I procrastinate on my own responsibilities.
I smoke too many cigarettes just to have something that passes the time between gulps.
I live too long in my memories.
I superimpose too much of what I thought I wanted onto what I have now.
I believe I am failing at everything I do yet act like I do everything better than them.
I live in a cluttered mess.
I pretend no one notices my obvious deficiencies.
I do things to get attention by hiding in plain sight.
I have real voices in my head.
I talk to myself, actually more like I scream at myself often.
I use other people's names as an escape word.
I secretly believe I am more important than I care to admit.
I foolishly think I deserve more.
I ignore my health.
I fantasize about things I would never want to actually participate in.
I still imagine I can be loved.
I sometimes believe women want me even when they already have someone.
I expect there will be magical occurrence in my life that will make me happy.
I enjoy causing myself physical pain if some aspect of it supposedly makes me stronger.
I long to have my life sacrificed if it means someone I love will survive longer.
I am jealous of my closest friends for being farther along in life and am obvious about it.
I spiral myself down to diminish the fear of falling.
I hate what I see in the mirror.
I believe I am destined for failure based on my genetics.
I drive too fast.
I often believe my way is the better way, until proven otherwise.
I torture myself constantly, in my head.
I ignore anything that I feel I don't know enough about to solve.
I find comfort in imagining being smashed into an unrecognizable blob of human remains.
This is the only existence I know. This is my normal.
Summer2012
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
Conjure belief where assurance
is easily tempted from doubt.
The physical world acts on
a point to point basis
of action, reaction.
Where the genesis of relativity
as the golden rule
mediates the knowledge
that is perpetuated by irony
through circumstance
and the accidental
incidental coincidences
that bend time.
Symmetry is a natural motion of
consistency, extending from an apex
or midlines, transverses, logarithmic expressions
all from some single origin.
The palms of our hands
are textual markings
of our need for symbolic understanding
in the variances
we create for scientific observation.
Juxtaposed to the stars we created
circular pieces to a wheel in the sky
we hypochondriacs believe
to superimpose as vaccines,
to our inconsistencies we host
as symbiotes
for inverse proportionality.
From the signal, beat, tone,
and definitive sounds
is the pulse of our momentum,
a return to equilibrium.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
My naivety died with my father
at the bottom of Lake Shelbyville
when I was seven years old
and still losing little teeth.
-
I turn twenty-four next week;
January the fifteenth.
I can still sense the difference between you and I
by the long pauses in between weather talks.
-
I find solace in solitude
and that will never change.
Too many years of misunderstandings,
dope addled family, and conflict avoidance.
-
My mother has an addictive personality
which she tries to superimpose onto me
as a way to keep me away from the ****
She wants me to be her negative film; her opposite.
-
I wish my grandma had leveled with her
instead of surrounding drugs with the mystique
and the danger of a loaded weapon
in a teenager's back pocket; denim daredevil.
-
Grandma.
Now that is a name I miss saying.
She was the stern force that matured me
and my protector in time of matriarchal absence.
-
Her mind started to die years before her body did
and I had to sit and watch it happen, helpless,
with my mother; her daughter.
Alzheimer's, falls, strokes, and in a flash she wasn't there.
-
I don't find myself rooting for the cause these days.
I just want to escape where I came from;
who I am, but the path is circular.
I'm accepting the fate, bathing in lust, and waiting for summer.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
Don’t go back
And try to compare
Then with now
To superimpose
26 onto 46
A faulty logic
The past will not
Heal the future
The future
Cannot corrupt
The past
What was
Or what will be
Are concepts
To which you owe
No fealty
In the kingdom of now
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 6:28 AM UTC
make love to the radio!
enjoy the taste undercover
and cherish it in the whole lot
until it’s bone-crushing delight
let me come utterly across you
where we can cover
over each part of the universe
while we still have access
overdue for liable spree
and disciple to the entire world
to make sure the show
is worth every bit of the admission
let’s form a mental picture of it
and partake into all of the human experience
try your hand at factoring my figures
tip your hat to my complex
so you can take all your know-how
and superimpose it on around me
together we can shelve our fears
and luxuriate into all the human experience
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Masks seem to superimpose upon a vast anonymity,
faces beneath become slack...forego face-hood.
A strange empowerment surges, these masks cannot
be undone...haunting an already haunted landscape
whilst peeping through eye-holes.
A certain voyeurism of inner terror playfully diffused
where it may.
The head feels bagged, sold and carried around--one
feels decentralized...combed over by a losing of gravity.
A sparse connectivity runs the body deliciously, as if
the consequences of the material world were scared away.
The interplay of what's dead in such a living, gives masks
a life of their own.
All Hallow's Eve all day long...till what collective ghost be
given up to its night.
To wander a night that's pitched itself forever more--
punctuated by Jack o' lanterns that grin and bear...what's
at the tip of their flame's tongue.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
Ripping hands from around my throat
prying greasy thick fingers out from
my mouth
screaming inside
grasping the tired air for a chance to speak
to breathe
to take up space in this room I pay to learn in.
men standing their ground
men taking my ground
men raising their voices
men shouting above my words and trying to prove me,
prove this theory, prove this gay professor
wrong
not just here
but
around every corner, behind me in every parking lot, too close in every line, every bus seat, every elevator ride
breathing down my back
always there to contradict, take back, rephrase
laugh
laugh louder,
humiliate then divide and conquer
sitting in the front to hear the words first or
sitting in the back like a king at his throne
superimpose these whacked out standards for my clothes,
my ***** my tattoos, my smiles
my frowns
bench pressing their superfluous beliefs that they’re under attack
when I flip them off, when I lead them on, when I run away, when I talk back
hard headed and white knuckled
clutching to their masculinity,
just like my throat
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
Your heels always hit the ground first and years later
thats how you learned how to run
you kicked up so much dirt that
the debris from your detour clings to your lashes
cradles your eyelids
you've become a whole new kind of transparency.
glazed and spaced, tell me when your shoes became the only thing
unlaced
tell me the next shade up in opaque and I'll superimpose you if it would make the slightest difference
in your distorted disposition
you're aware of your capacity of scarred composition but you say hey,
it's better than plain vacancy, well
I want to shake the coiled novas nestled between your temples so that the air
can be polluted with something beautiful for a change, I know that love
is just a futile prescription that you're immune to
but I still pray it's something
you'll get used to
I want your antics to stride past exposed bones so maybe I can pave
a fractured thought of my own
I want your second hand smoke
to inhale
a sweet exhale
of your mind, in the shape of O's that linger from tolks
this room is white like clean coke and
stained white with clean coke and
when I swallow so much shadow that I too
become a ghost, just know that I
am only malleable
but not the only thing you're able to
control
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
Nihilism,
there's nothing like it.
Marriage,
as the ritualistic dance of death.
Illusory,
a desire not to know thy self.
Superimpose,
'the power' one onto the other.
Disillusioned,
a hope for love therein.
Cutting ties,
with the real source of love.
Confusing,
Hell for Heaven-union in separation.
Nothing,
nothing at all is here.
Reality,
is on the other side.
Love,
is freedom.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 11:38 PM UTC
Remember that feeling in 2016,
when your choices were - an orange
crybaby or **** filled latrine.
Vote for the third party or abstain,
both of which are options,
options labeling you as vain.
A zero sum game.
Only you're to blame.
A sense of shame.
Profanities, exclaim!
. . . All in the same. . .
Take that nausea and superimpose it
on to every aspect of your life.
2020 has been nothing but $h!t
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 7:07 AM UTC
Ran out of hugs
Ran out of kisses
Ran out of loving
That's
the way it always goes
I am just led to superimpose
There is a way
that the sun
glows gold
There is a cup
that will overflow
There is a good moon
rising
just before the dawn
An owl that
doesn't give a Hoot
out on the lawn
A broken heart that
no amount of kintsugi
and gold
will fill the canyons
of cracks and
eliminate the epicanthic soul
.
epicanthic - a prolongation of the upper eyelid that partially blocks the inner corner eyesight .
Oct 21, 2024
Oct 21, 2024 at 9:45 PM UTC
Down by some babbling bank,
my past lives superimpose,
Upon my own.
And it was near,
toxic waters,
where I was born.
And primordial bubbles
unearthed a bone.
From which,
I was fashioned and formed.
Though ghosting tongues,
do bobble and flap,
In gaping cambrian mouths.
they are mute, finite and fixed.
Which does none to please me,
in my present state.
Stoic and unashamed
like a marble crying fountain,
whose tears reach to the saints,
The cobblers.
the warlords,
and snakes,
that I might have been.
So if I regress,
so far,
To the point of hatred
I will reserve it
for those,
Who deserve it:
Those preceding me.
because they never did give any good advice.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
In the vast open spaces between my bones and skin, the empty rattle of where my heart once superimpose is where I shall love you for eternity.
The echos of past love never fail to visit me.
The friction between the miles on the bed was were once layer haunt me, and burns my flesh to even ponder over the idea of sleeping on your side.
I shall love you in the highest light. come gather along, wary over me.
Evil is injected in my veins.
I purposely find that the greatest love ever, is the love that ruins you for the rest of your life.
The love that merely makes you have a lump in your throat at the sound of a song you and your late lover shared.
It's the type of love, if you can even fathom calling it love;
that makes life worth wild. That type of love brings us the thrill of life, without that certain almost seeming everlasting pain, life is perhaps dull, without color if you will.
It's the love which leaves battle scars, and beyond that, it brings creativity and hope.
Nobody writes about that part, because they feel as if they didn't have to write anymore, after the horrid is over.
I desire to send you a good omen as I pass.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
I often take the long road home.
It allows me to take a deep dive
of events and find my place in
the trajectory of working hours.
You can do this sort of thing with
quantitative matters. Interactions
between a) and b) will always have
a measurable effect on levels of c)
I have tried to superimpose this idea
on qualitative issues without success.
Even on the longest route there is not
enough road to draw firm conclusions.
Tony Noon
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 1:18 PM UTC
An ardent following,
superseded by disdain
that comes like the aligned
sadism brought by you.
Feel like a failure?
Like the weapons in your brain
have finally run out of power and
that they were fabricated
from day one.
Feel like a failure?
Not yet?
You will never find a joy in
A brusque portrayal of success.
Because you have failed.
They will find out eventually.
They all will.
The trickster is not the manipulator.
You joke.
You are envious, envious of
others, how superficial!
Just like you want to be,
because you fail to elaborate
upon your own promises.
You surrender to the gift
that is moving on.
Just like anyone else!
How could someone like you fall so flat?
High functioning, or lack thereof.
You can fool the weak,
but so can any glimmer of hope.
Superimpose your lies
as you run out of time
and play the demi
in order to fornicate with
the incessant drive rather than
the polished joy that is success.
Move on.
You are a failure.
You are beginning to run out of options,
your only option is surely deceit.
Manipulators driven by the harrowing
sense that tomorrow will bring
inner motivation for another
night of fulfillment.
You, my friend,
are no different.
You resort to illusion because
you cannot create your own world.
You will die by the hands of another.
Another just like you.
Weak and powerless in the eyes
of those who a greater
than your desire
of
being as great.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
and here in my past week
an entire universe has been modified and shifted
it's all still vaguely familiar though
i remember all the pathways like the back of my hand
you see,
no matter how often i fight myself on this
and no matter how often i stare at that map, seeking a different way
they have all led back to you
so to think that maybe we were both a bit timid at first
ignites a warm fire
these flames that lace my nerves
electrify and superimpose onto a neon background
and they fill this empty bed when i feel weightless
you called a name
and it took me a moment
to comprehend
that it was mine
you told me
that i had exceptionally dark eyes
and asked if i knew how to dance
if only you knew that meeting you
was an event for the books
a milestone, in fact
little moments replay
on this continuous loop
that i wouldn't dare take any bribe to stop watching
exchanges that one would normally dismiss
or not think anything of
are so
so
significant to me
little memories have this habit of whispering,
"hey. i happened."
i listen for your song
time and time again
and never before have i wanted there to be silence so bad
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
The Beech Grove
Last steps make no sound;
They superimpose on moist unstirred grass,
On a cold bright lane, shadow strewn.
Flanked by beech, destiny’s guard of honor,
Branches crowd in intangible, tangled glory.
Feet fall within a psychic landscape,
Bereft of earthly impact
Above wrenched-away Earth.
Dappled light dazzles
Those left to wait for unheralded end,
Smearing the screen of one born of silence.
A sight of earth displaced from sense;
Cold clarity. Gone absolutely.
The steps of the unbelonging
Walk an empty country lane-
An after dinner stroll that ends
In Another Place.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 5:52 AM UTC