"supplemented" poems - Hello Poetry

Sometimes I feel incomplete, as if my two hands clasped aren't enough to hold, As if my body heat needs to be supplemented somehow, or encouraged; I don't feel enough pressure on my skin throughout the day, and though I'm not six years old, I decide to touch everything I see, everyone, so we aren't all discouraged. I only know my position of mind, any other I've barely grazed through, Since I was born and raised with this head, my mind has developed it's own ways... But I'll always glance over, when I'm not being beheld, to take a look at you, And study your habits, expressions, even your name, until my focus is swayed. And this is what I do with myself, how I fill up my time and my brain. I daydream with my head down and refuse to see the sun, The blinding light doesn't see me as an herb, but simply something to drain. Burn my eyes with your excellence, your independence has won, And I, laying face down in the soil, feel your burning influence upon my back. Swelter my skin, I don't have to ask. Are you who I want to be? An unstoppable force in someone's sky that can both comfort and attack? Is that what I'll have? A sun of a man to hold? One who both loves and harms me? However, it may be my own fault, as the harm is inevitable here, Staying out without protecting myself from the ball of light in the sky. The earth against my forehead is cool and rich, making my head clear, It takes each whimper, each tear that falls, and absorbs every cry. I bury my face into the dirt, squeezing my eyes shut so tight, I taste the sediment, the clay, the plant remains, but I don't mind. It feels just fine. Cool on my skin, dark and soft, it feels just right. So much so that I forget about the sun that looms right behind.

0

Aug 7, 2018

Aug 7, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC

isabel316

Summertime

Sometimes I feel incomplete, as if my two hands clasped aren't enough to hold, As if my body heat needs to be supplemented somehow, or encouraged; I don't feel enough pressure on my skin throughout the day, and though I'm not six years old, I decide to touch everything I see, everyone, so we aren't all discouraged. I only know my position of mind, any other I've barely grazed through, Since I was born and raised with this head, my mind has developed it's own ways... But I'll always glance over, when I'm not being beheld, to take a look at you, And study your habits, expressions, even your name, until my focus is swayed. And this is what I do with myself, how I fill up my time and my brain. I daydream with my head down and refuse to see the sun, The blinding light doesn't see me as an herb, but simply something to drain. Burn my eyes with your excellence, your independence has won, And I, laying face down in the soil, feel your burning influence upon my back. Swelter my skin, I don't have to ask. Are you who I want to be? An unstoppable force in someone's sky that can both comfort and attack? Is that what I'll have? A sun of a man to hold? One who both loves and harms me? However, it may be my own fault, as the harm is inevitable here, Staying out without protecting myself from the ball of light in the sky. The earth against my forehead is cool and rich, making my head clear, It takes each whimper, each tear that falls, and absorbs every cry. I bury my face into the dirt, squeezing my eyes shut so tight, I taste the sediment, the clay, the plant remains, but I don't mind. It feels just fine. Cool on my skin, dark and soft, it feels just right. So much so that I forget about the sun that looms right behind.

24

Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane, The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity, Which stripped away the man in me, And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free... Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies, As you do? A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo. Like the latter, Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you," Truly care to know... If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter, And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which, Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor, Who washes Shame Away In calm, hot showers. What empowerment. We underwent the chance event, Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent, How kind it was of him to lend, His hand, For both of mine. What malcontent. We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent, Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence Remaining 99 percent. Peasants, plebeians, proletariat; We poke the U.N. Secretariat, To ask again, "Are we there yet?" "Are we there yet?" And silence is how were always met. We drop it, trust they won't forget, About us, suffering cold sweats; As we fear unwanted debt, They won't forget, They won't forget, They won't forget About us. Yet competition takes it place, And twists that sympathetic face, To grab a poor man's knowledge base, To ask him, "What do I gain from assisting The likes Of you?" The poor man bellows, "you're poor too! Like those who can't afford shampoo. You can't afford my point of view, It risks a loss that's overdue, And money makes you misconstrue, Existence." And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter, And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which, Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor; He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor, On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter; What empowerment. We underwent the chance event, Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent, How kind it was of him to lend, His hand, For both of mine. This isn't right. I question fines, And wonder, where's the kindness? What happened to our kindred spirits? Did we leave all that behind us? Is money truly all we want, And happiness put second? The future is unwritten, So follow me; Expect resistance.

0

Oct 3, 2011

Oct 3, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC

tread

The Suicide Lane

Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane, The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity, Which stripped away the man in me, And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free... Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies, As you do? A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo. Like the latter, Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you," Truly care to know... If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter, And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which, Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor, Who washes Shame Away In calm, hot showers. What empowerment. We underwent the chance event, Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent, How kind it was of him to lend, His hand, For both of mine. What malcontent. We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent, Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence Remaining 99 percent. Peasants, plebeians, proletariat; We poke the U.N. Secretariat, To ask again, "Are we there yet?" "Are we there yet?" And silence is how were always met. We drop it, trust they won't forget, About us, suffering cold sweats; As we fear unwanted debt, They won't forget, They won't forget, They won't forget About us. Yet competition takes it place, And twists that sympathetic face, To grab a poor man's knowledge base, To ask him, "What do I gain from assisting The likes Of you?" The poor man bellows, "you're poor too! Like those who can't afford shampoo. You can't afford my point of view, It risks a loss that's overdue, And money makes you misconstrue, Existence." And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter, And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which, Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor; He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor, On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter; What empowerment. We underwent the chance event, Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent, How kind it was of him to lend, His hand, For both of mine. This isn't right. I question fines, And wonder, where's the kindness? What happened to our kindred spirits? Did we leave all that behind us? Is money truly all we want, And happiness put second? The future is unwritten, So follow me; Expect resistance.

80

What if I told you that your god is dead? that supply and demand, economic forces we trust more than the laws of physics are not supplemented by a caring, Invisible hand? That the holy scriptures, thin, green pages in between the folds of a wallet are no more valueable than this gum wrapper blowing in the wind Unless we all BELIEVE otherwise Adam Smith said "Many will enter, but few will win" -cite What will give you a sense of purpose or security when you try to sleep at night? Everyone hope in the American Dream! a capitalistic kushion to save you in your time of need made of vapor to catch you when the stocks are falling its appalling this heaven of prosperity that depends on consuming more and more of the earth Listen to The Economist's sermon Watch how he reads the tea leaves Will the Fed raise the interest rates this year? We throw the dice and say our prayers. All things work together for good For those who love it. Welcome to the worship of Mammon.

0

Jan 26, 2015

Jan 26, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC

XNtricity

The Faith of Neo-Classical Economics

What if I told you that your god is dead? that supply and demand, economic forces we trust more than the laws of physics are not supplemented by a caring, Invisible hand? That the holy scriptures, thin, green pages in between the folds of a wallet are no more valueable than this gum wrapper blowing in the wind Unless we all BELIEVE otherwise Adam Smith said "Many will enter, but few will win" -cite What will give you a sense of purpose or security when you try to sleep at night? Everyone hope in the American Dream! a capitalistic kushion to save you in your time of need made of vapor to catch you when the stocks are falling its appalling this heaven of prosperity that depends on consuming more and more of the earth Listen to The Economist's sermon Watch how he reads the tea leaves Will the Fed raise the interest rates this year? We throw the dice and say our prayers. All things work together for good For those who love it. Welcome to the worship of Mammon.

25

Unexpectedly he has been cracked Squarely across his dainty skull Inevitably to his knees he languishes Supplemented by a concussion Havoc is illicitly wreaked upon the delicacy Of this young man's psyche As another swift, sucker punch is executed Stylishly into his jawbone Followed by an unforeseen series Of frenzied jabs to the nose The anguish screams through the brooks Of crimson oozing from his nostrils While a dangerous haymaker Shockingly arises from thin air Sinking fiercely into his cornea Rupturing the veins in his eyeball A circular crown of black envelops The entire surface of his left eye Oh, the gruesome consequences of Applauding the eminence of nonexistence A truculent knockout that will truly Abduct one into an eerie coma And rightfully deliver them back to The portion of reality where they belong

0

Aug 28, 2011

Aug 28, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC

glenn-mccrary

K.O.

Unexpectedly he has been cracked Squarely across his dainty skull Inevitably to his knees he languishes Supplemented by a concussion Havoc is illicitly wreaked upon the delicacy Of this young man's psyche As another swift, sucker punch is executed Stylishly into his jawbone Followed by an unforeseen series Of frenzied jabs to the nose The anguish screams through the brooks Of crimson oozing from his nostrils While a dangerous haymaker Shockingly arises from thin air Sinking fiercely into his cornea Rupturing the veins in his eyeball A circular crown of black envelops The entire surface of his left eye Oh, the gruesome consequences of Applauding the eminence of nonexistence A truculent knockout that will truly Abduct one into an eerie coma And rightfully deliver them back to The portion of reality where they belong

24

Sixty lives are all linked with thirty kidneys for survival. Scientists are suggesting sweeping the skies clean with a celestial broom…. A man has scuffed his shoe (which was costly)on the sidewalk. Women dream of democracy, but the government burns their children and there isn’t a shroud to see. I am drinking tea and eating cookies, it’s a Sunday afternoon, and almost time for my nap, as my head nods and bobs again. The world of foreclosures was falling off the page. I felt as if I was fighting a judge… loosing the battle my house falling into a ditch. And then the moat opens into castle walls lined with red liveried men draped in gold braids. And what magnificence (f/o me). A postscript to my dream, my dream of a white stallion, harnessed to hoof over the moors. All our greatest presidents were lucky. They inherited national crises. All but one preferred a Nerdgasmic life a life that can be supplemented with a Gallup poll approval rating. So late in the afternoon and already a dog has been fed and walked down the road to *** on a walnut tree.

0

Feb 20, 2012

Feb 20, 2012 at 7:17 AM UTC

taylor-watson

THE SUNDAY PAPER

Sixty lives are all linked with thirty kidneys for survival. Scientists are suggesting sweeping the skies clean with a celestial broom…. A man has scuffed his shoe (which was costly)on the sidewalk. Women dream of democracy, but the government burns their children and there isn’t a shroud to see. I am drinking tea and eating cookies, it’s a Sunday afternoon, and almost time for my nap, as my head nods and bobs again. The world of foreclosures was falling off the page. I felt as if I was fighting a judge… loosing the battle my house falling into a ditch. And then the moat opens into castle walls lined with red liveried men draped in gold braids. And what magnificence (f/o me). A postscript to my dream, my dream of a white stallion, harnessed to hoof over the moors. All our greatest presidents were lucky. They inherited national crises. All but one preferred a Nerdgasmic life a life that can be supplemented with a Gallup poll approval rating. So late in the afternoon and already a dog has been fed and walked down the road to *** on a walnut tree.

24

“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him. That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics Ready to deal a winning hand at a moment’s notice. The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica, Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins. The curtains of neon phantasmagoria showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m dancing with Queens of glamorous sins. He had that red tail swinging in the rain She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction With pale skin and leather lips abundant Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes As he in turn supplemented instruction. It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.

0

Nov 16, 2014

Nov 16, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC

trevor-gates

Satan in High Heels

“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him. That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics Ready to deal a winning hand at a moment’s notice. The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica, Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins. The curtains of neon phantasmagoria showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m dancing with Queens of glamorous sins. He had that red tail swinging in the rain She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction With pale skin and leather lips abundant Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes As he in turn supplemented instruction. It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.

24

Styling someone is never the option for truth too supplement facts, altogether! It's probably because truth towards an option of essentially giving someone such an "option" as too never style them (first and foremost)... Is simply because those very facts are supplemented too such a degree, that everything falls apart from both decision-making and choice! Logic doesn't rule anymore! Nor does a sense for reasoning, either. Therefore, what are you truly left with then...? Easy. As it could never be as simple as styling someone who doesn't have the very effective option for truth too supplement facts over the "long-drawn-out haul"! Mostly because ALL things with purpose in mind, essentially won't ever (anymore) have it's sense for duty in hand, either. Meaning your left with the only comparable stationary meanings that will tempt the negotiations of many things too remake sense...once again. Even if it takes longer than what was fully expected (not the first time around). Whereas it wouldn't have taken as long when the very unexpected "anticipations" were completely expected (the second time around). Giving hope too an even newer sense of logic that doesn't have anything too truly do with normal reasoning, anymore. Actually, it NEVER did! Why do you think hope is an offerable cause too mandatory "enlightenment"?! Hopes grows into the shape or form of "believe", after all. (Leaving little powerful things both such as "decision-making and choice" entirely scrunched! While being also compressed "too death"! Too much between!) Which slightly contradicts logic ruling as it ALWAYS should. Or essentially, ALWAYS did! Especially when that very sense for reasoning becomes (all the more) valid (first and foremost). Conclusion... "Styling someone is never the option", because you essentially don't have anything more equipped than regular truth which prompts joy into hope growing and amassing into believe. Which actually creates the sense of reasoning that breaths logic into it's very surroundings. PS... "Styling someone is never the option"... All for truth too supplement facts, altogether! Again...and again...and again....

0

Aug 10, 2020

Aug 10, 2020 at 5:34 PM UTC

simon-7

Styling someone is never the option.

Styling someone is never the option for truth too supplement facts, altogether! It's probably because truth towards an option of essentially giving someone such an "option" as too never style them (first and foremost)... Is simply because those very facts are supplemented too such a degree, that everything falls apart from both decision-making and choice! Logic doesn't rule anymore! Nor does a sense for reasoning, either. Therefore, what are you truly left with then...? Easy. As it could never be as simple as styling someone who doesn't have the very effective option for truth too supplement facts over the "long-drawn-out haul"! Mostly because ALL things with purpose in mind, essentially won't ever (anymore) have it's sense for duty in hand, either. Meaning your left with the only comparable stationary meanings that will tempt the negotiations of many things too remake sense...once again. Even if it takes longer than what was fully expected (not the first time around). Whereas it wouldn't have taken as long when the very unexpected "anticipations" were completely expected (the second time around). Giving hope too an even newer sense of logic that doesn't have anything too truly do with normal reasoning, anymore. Actually, it NEVER did! Why do you think hope is an offerable cause too mandatory "enlightenment"?! Hopes grows into the shape or form of "believe", after all. (Leaving little powerful things both such as "decision-making and choice" entirely scrunched! While being also compressed "too death"! Too much between!) Which slightly contradicts logic ruling as it ALWAYS should. Or essentially, ALWAYS did! Especially when that very sense for reasoning becomes (all the more) valid (first and foremost). Conclusion... "Styling someone is never the option", because you essentially don't have anything more equipped than regular truth which prompts joy into hope growing and amassing into believe. Which actually creates the sense of reasoning that breaths logic into it's very surroundings. PS... "Styling someone is never the option"... All for truth too supplement facts, altogether! Again...and again...and again....

2

There will be so many I disappoint that I, content, do not heed. My mother — Who cooks when I am not hungry. My sister — who frowns at my blemishes and plucks my unibrow ferociously. The poet slash musician slash magician who calls me to **** when his calendar is empty. I bailed on them, like the similes that no longer serve me, like the poems I tossed as therapy — You know — The ones spun from circular conversations — gut feelings supplemented by text messages when you're half paying attention, half wishing the space between buzzes would lengthen. There will be so many irked that I, content, remain unresponsive. They wish my mouth wide open, drooling, trained to heed queries, They pull my time like teeth, Blinded by the sting, I can’t see the point of fearing their disappointment. Because there will be so many I disappoint, but I, at peace.

0

Mar 16, 2015

Mar 16, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC

courtney-pruitt

There will be so many.

There will be so many I disappoint that I, content, do not heed. My mother — Who cooks when I am not hungry. My sister — who frowns at my blemishes and plucks my unibrow ferociously. The poet slash musician slash magician who calls me to **** when his calendar is empty. I bailed on them, like the similes that no longer serve me, like the poems I tossed as therapy — You know — The ones spun from circular conversations — gut feelings supplemented by text messages when you're half paying attention, half wishing the space between buzzes would lengthen. There will be so many irked that I, content, remain unresponsive. They wish my mouth wide open, drooling, trained to heed queries, They pull my time like teeth, Blinded by the sting, I can’t see the point of fearing their disappointment. Because there will be so many I disappoint, but I, at peace.

34

I feel so strong in my faith The possibilities are endless I lower my head in shame of my past, only knowing Its the the same place my head is when I'm praying I fall,to my knees knowing that its the same place I'm at when I'm begging I cry I feel so tempted And try Guess he doesn't like me Who cares I thought my problems were in my feelings Or lack thereof So I supplemented smiling With drinking Only to find out ultimately That the flesh is far more powerful than my heart Especially when he has tattoos,and a smile I talk about more than I see So I'm living stronger in knowing I can overcome this Because I'm living daily Without what is making me Knowing soon I'll find what God has left for me And find the one with expectations I can also meet I lay here daydreaming Suffocating yet again Trying to catch my breath Like I wish I could my sin So I wouldn't have to ask for forgiveness tomorrow he doesn't call, I don't care Or do I Seems I write,talk,and wine About it More than the **** I'm trying to give up Me without a blunt I know it seems impossible So does not taking a self injected shot of hyper activity, and I've made it ten months thus far I'm forever rushing my pain To get to the feeling of unworthy,so that I know its a delusion brought forth by the possibility of failure And when Christ strengthens my weakness To fail is just a thought wanting him more like a wish,And I realize in this world full of problems I'm not the worst fish I learn daily,silently listen As often as allowed And when its too quite I look up from falling and reach for the hands that have absorbed my pain While lifting me away from this valley in the bottom of my self grown Eden my forbidden fruit Would taste delicious In a pie, I'm sure of it

0

Oct 16, 2015

Oct 16, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC

IV4

my life

I feel so strong in my faith The possibilities are endless I lower my head in shame of my past, only knowing Its the the same place my head is when I'm praying I fall,to my knees knowing that its the same place I'm at when I'm begging I cry I feel so tempted And try Guess he doesn't like me Who cares I thought my problems were in my feelings Or lack thereof So I supplemented smiling With drinking Only to find out ultimately That the flesh is far more powerful than my heart Especially when he has tattoos,and a smile I talk about more than I see So I'm living stronger in knowing I can overcome this Because I'm living daily Without what is making me Knowing soon I'll find what God has left for me And find the one with expectations I can also meet I lay here daydreaming Suffocating yet again Trying to catch my breath Like I wish I could my sin So I wouldn't have to ask for forgiveness tomorrow he doesn't call, I don't care Or do I Seems I write,talk,and wine About it More than the **** I'm trying to give up Me without a blunt I know it seems impossible So does not taking a self injected shot of hyper activity, and I've made it ten months thus far I'm forever rushing my pain To get to the feeling of unworthy,so that I know its a delusion brought forth by the possibility of failure And when Christ strengthens my weakness To fail is just a thought wanting him more like a wish,And I realize in this world full of problems I'm not the worst fish I learn daily,silently listen As often as allowed And when its too quite I look up from falling and reach for the hands that have absorbed my pain While lifting me away from this valley in the bottom of my self grown Eden my forbidden fruit Would taste delicious In a pie, I'm sure of it

52

Becoming the writer I dreamt I could be I just never imagined It’d be poetry Not some novelty Story Compelling me on To renown and acclaim And conclusions foregone No delusions of fame Just a roof for the rain And enough sustenance To existence maintain And if it’s supplemented In wages or pages I pledge to persist To rephrase it in phases Develop my craft Indigent Or affluent And offer the movement Consistent improvement

0

Mar 5, 2021

Mar 5, 2021 at 1:33 AM UTC

michael-marchese

The Progressive

Becoming the writer I dreamt I could be I just never imagined It’d be poetry Not some novelty Story Compelling me on To renown and acclaim And conclusions foregone No delusions of fame Just a roof for the rain And enough sustenance To existence maintain And if it’s supplemented In wages or pages I pledge to persist To rephrase it in phases Develop my craft Indigent Or affluent And offer the movement Consistent improvement

22

May 12,2015 Dearest Miliza, M any years now have already passed, i n our hearts we are still much together. l ove can never fade or die if it is genuine, i adore you and all I wish is your happiness. z est has become of my life when I see you, a s always I wish you near me all the time. P lease do not change my beloved, i n every moment you are my inspiration. z ealous as I am for loving you dearly, a s you supplemented it with your love too. r eal joy is what you meant to me my dear, r est assured that such feeling will be forever. o h, how lucky I am for having you as my wife! B ut love like life is not perfect, r easons are variable and endless a s we had problems coping with it. t hanks to God for forgiveness and mercy, o n His guidance and love we bonded as ever. Lovingly yours; Marvin

0

Jun 5, 2015

Jun 5, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC

marvin-m-brato

Love Letter To Miliza

May 12,2015 Dearest Miliza, M any years now have already passed, i n our hearts we are still much together. l ove can never fade or die if it is genuine, i adore you and all I wish is your happiness. z est has become of my life when I see you, a s always I wish you near me all the time. P lease do not change my beloved, i n every moment you are my inspiration. z ealous as I am for loving you dearly, a s you supplemented it with your love too. r eal joy is what you meant to me my dear, r est assured that such feeling will be forever. o h, how lucky I am for having you as my wife! B ut love like life is not perfect, r easons are variable and endless a s we had problems coping with it. t hanks to God for forgiveness and mercy, o n His guidance and love we bonded as ever. Lovingly yours; Marvin

22

The world is composed of things I will never understand Disparate, uncolliding flows envelope me in nausea Globalized apparatuses peaking in a way lost of me What I hold What I desire Is a Frankenstein amalgam who’s purity was supplemented for progress long ago Everyday we stray further from the light that birthed us Entropy be my metronomic master Lacerate my back always Hedonism divert my will The void of that allows only the whipping pangs in You exist without pause Process tells me I’m one with you Diamond compressing isolation tells me no Is all it says No to all Nothing exists but finer needlepoint disparity Shirk false logic False unity, emancipatory potential All that’s known is mourning Before your own funeral Tear my soul Again Gaping wound laid open for the sun to pour inside Hands to pour inside grasping deeper Past guts Pull the incision wider As wide as you can, your ghoulish hands What do you find? Tell me there’s something! You won’t tell me Yet you look You’ve left me Wondering I’ll lay mutilated

0

Dec 9, 2019

Dec 9, 2019 at 12:43 AM UTC

bleeding-edge

Trying this Again

The world is composed of things I will never understand Disparate, uncolliding flows envelope me in nausea Globalized apparatuses peaking in a way lost of me What I hold What I desire Is a Frankenstein amalgam who’s purity was supplemented for progress long ago Everyday we stray further from the light that birthed us Entropy be my metronomic master Lacerate my back always Hedonism divert my will The void of that allows only the whipping pangs in You exist without pause Process tells me I’m one with you Diamond compressing isolation tells me no Is all it says No to all Nothing exists but finer needlepoint disparity Shirk false logic False unity, emancipatory potential All that’s known is mourning Before your own funeral Tear my soul Again Gaping wound laid open for the sun to pour inside Hands to pour inside grasping deeper Past guts Pull the incision wider As wide as you can, your ghoulish hands What do you find? Tell me there’s something! You won’t tell me Yet you look You’ve left me Wondering I’ll lay mutilated

35

Fresh home from therapy, and resonate with zeal **** air cerebral cogs a turn'n analogous to rack and pinion wheel hence attempt made to bare soul, sans thru poetry re: veal ling avidity, asper barreling neurological daily kos loaded truck full heading toward figurative lifelong landfill deposits on weekly ****** logical session I unseal manipulating bothersome issues controlled via bot size thumbwheel, which grave undertaking i.e. professional counseling allows, enables, and provides opportunistic gradual process at selfheal ling oft times necessitates reviewing silent Virgina reel comprising the story of earlier life piecemeal akin to a slapdash montage chronicling existential ordeal, now referencing adenoids (removal first mention within poetic endeavor, when young boy) loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal pseudo oral palate highway tucking each meal across miniature bridgework, ma late mum meekly acceded to doctors orders, said operation sub sequently deemed unnecessary affecting negligible decreasing nasality predicated on split (bifid or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal utterances finds me speculating speculating now, whether taking kneel ling pose possibly coo dove wrought divine intercession giving me super powers ideal for fighting off being bullied gloating this instant imagining bringing beastie boys to heel actual reality visit my kid self, a most convenient scapegoat socially withdraw puny size lad internalizing hateful barbs glom ming up significant emotional gearwheel inferiority complex predominating supplemented with cumulative anger, a potent feel ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition courtesy chromosomal (pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.

0

Jul 9, 2018

Jul 9, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Mental Illness...Inherent Since Birth

Fresh home from therapy, and resonate with zeal **** air cerebral cogs a turn'n analogous to rack and pinion wheel hence attempt made to bare soul, sans thru poetry re: veal ling avidity, asper barreling neurological daily kos loaded truck full heading toward figurative lifelong landfill deposits on weekly ****** logical session I unseal manipulating bothersome issues controlled via bot size thumbwheel, which grave undertaking i.e. professional counseling allows, enables, and provides opportunistic gradual process at selfheal ling oft times necessitates reviewing silent Virgina reel comprising the story of earlier life piecemeal akin to a slapdash montage chronicling existential ordeal, now referencing adenoids (removal first mention within poetic endeavor, when young boy) loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal pseudo oral palate highway tucking each meal across miniature bridgework, ma late mum meekly acceded to doctors orders, said operation sub sequently deemed unnecessary affecting negligible decreasing nasality predicated on split (bifid or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal utterances finds me speculating speculating now, whether taking kneel ling pose possibly coo dove wrought divine intercession giving me super powers ideal for fighting off being bullied gloating this instant imagining bringing beastie boys to heel actual reality visit my kid self, a most convenient scapegoat socially withdraw puny size lad internalizing hateful barbs glom ming up significant emotional gearwheel inferiority complex predominating supplemented with cumulative anger, a potent feel ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition courtesy chromosomal (pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.

57