"tallied" poems
It's so much easier to make the same mistakes
to wage a war upon myself
It's so much simpler to smile in your face
to wish that I were someone else
I'm so **** hurtful
but only to my own skin
I'm worth so much more
but I'll still draw blood again
And when will I let myself go
And when will I push far
And when will It be to late
And when will I stop opening the same scars
It's barely past midnight
Red is all I see
A innocent boy who's shattered
A beautiful catastrophe
But who will help him now
Cause he's still making the same mistakes
But who will fight for his life
When he feels he's nothing but a waste
And when does this war end
Cause I still crave razors against my skin
When I look into the mirror
It's still a reflection I can't withstand
Back at war again
Under your sleeve is the battlefield
A million casualties
Tallied are battles that have healed
Be a warrior
Scar tissue is tougher than regular skin
Be a warrior
Find your strength from within
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
Dedicated to John and Bob
From first flesh we move down widening halls
That lead to lives of wondrous walls.
Our spidered fingers gripped walls of brick,
Cruets, cups and candle sticks.
Incense clouded open graves
When we too believed we too were saved.
Between Annex walls we learned our phonics,
On tin-roofed walls we lived our comics.
Garage walls scaled showed different views,
Kitchen walls steamed with soups and stews.
Our school yard walls tallied pitches
That marked our summers of youth and wishes.
Now lift memory's pane and go back
To the white-framed walls of a secret shack.
There, in confusion we would cling
To the unknown wonders girls would bring.
These young boys' walls we both outgrew;
Now new walls sprang, as we did too.
Coffee House walls offered something new.
Wet kisses lingered near shadowy walls,
We heard poetry read in a backroom stall.
Recreationals made our new skin crawl.
Cliff walls were breached by stairs of clay,
Carved by Incas on a turquoise day.
Tent walls echoed with impish fray,
Green walls beckoned at the end of day.
These walls gave rise to hot desires,
Like Vikings planning funeral pyres.
New music, cheers and weekend guests
Stood us ***** to pound our chests.
Those walls no longer ring our shores;
Time swept us forward with worldly lures.
We doffed our coats of suede and frills,
And donned new clothes and workday skills.
The walls of work are a rocky climb,
Stones laid by us, for yours and mine.
Such towers & turrets of heart & hearth
Guard all we know of any worth.
I see distant walls on cliffs, in fields;
Where do they lead? What will they yield?
Yet, there three friends climb one more hill,
Climb one more wall. Then all is still.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
what the hyena cannot ****
it will steal
tallied on the gritted walls of our toil
their bounty cultivated from the nothing we now possess
and the bodies which must fall once their winter bites
no time left to wail and gnash
we must become as lions that rise
and grip the throat of this thieving class
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
My vision of you,
Belied if tallied with stars in the night,
Like the moon lit blue.
Don’t tell me it’s true,
When I dare say you’re my sunlight,
If asked my vision of you.
Because there are so few,
Paintings that describe you right,
Your beauty like the moon lit blue.
Won’t you tell me a clue?
How do I eternalize this precious kite?
To keep my vision of you.
If only you knew,
You leave me breathless, gone my flight,
Tamed like the moon lit blue.
I pledge my true-blue
Forever be my pride, my delight, my side,
For my vision of you,
Is authentic like the moon lit blue.
Aug 7, 2023
Aug 7, 2023 at 11:47 AM UTC
His kisses were long and soft.
They were softer than the carnations he got her everyday.
But Alas ! Those kisses were false and those carnations were imaginary.
She looked at the watch as she tallied the last account for the day.
His existence was unknown and their love was unfound. She removed his picture which she had lovingly pinned on the wall.
Heavens cry and clouds sing,
She got the prince but she lost the ring.
They never found his dead body.
She still remembers how he chose the carnations for their wedding reception.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
What if you're the addict that has accepted the first step a long time ago, while lines tallied up against years, and once familiar folk have given up hope long after patience; there's you first squatting in the corner of a house you barely know, with people you just met, and you shoot water in your veins, now on bent knees, praying this water is holy enough to ease the pain. The immaculate fix.
Arms outstretched, facing east and west, needles as big as nails delicately caressing the flesh and resting on sweaty palms, emaciating by way of lust and fear. No Will. No Power of Attorney. No Will Power.
They say Adam walked with Eve in the garden, and it was Eve that bit the apple. But you never hear the part about Adam killing Eve with silence. Adam was the snake. And of course above, and beyond, omnipotence comes with the added responsibility of design. "Would you consider yourself a Type A personality or a Type B personality?" The doctor asked.
One suicide and one admission to the psych ward should always be coincidental, but in case it's not and silence becomes deadly you must keep a straight face. Let the guilt mentally choke you, like a murderer choking the life from their victim. You look around the ward to find that there are no staircases. But empathy and keeping that straight face will lead to discharge, and programs, and twelve steps.
And you know when you get to that final step, it takes only one more
to push off and fall away.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
Even when I was there in your arms I knew it wouldn't last long,
I tallied the days and although melancholy knowing that it wouldn't last, I basked in each moment wishing for time to not exist.
I kept each moment like people collect snow globes or baseball cards.
I collect those moments with you, and put them in a box labeled life.
I slipped the rejection paper between the folds of the cardboard.
I was the only one at the funeral.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC
I smiled and stared at lady death
eyes burnt of hatred and contempt
each tallied line of promises kept
And to lady death, I owe a large debt.
Goodbye, for when the star sets tonight
the debt collector will surely arrive.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 4:50 AM UTC
I am outside a high school party with a cigarette in my hand and my sweater trailing on the ground. I belong to the night; to the teenage desperation you find right through the front door inside every single one of those boys and girls eyes. It is dark outside but I can make out everyone's faces simply by the light of cigarettes. I close my eyes for a second and inhale. I can barely make out the silhouette of the person I wish was in front of me. My eyes open. You are not here. To my left there's an alley and a short boy is throwing up the 22 shots that are tallied on his forearm. His best friend is video taping it. I don't think I'm really here. Is this the alcohol speaking? I didn't feel this attached to you 3 hours ago. My mother thinks I am at work. I don't feel bad at all. After everything I have done, lying is simple. I've become accustomed to being a lie. A boy is trying to get two girls to make out and that offends me. I'm not here. I'm not anywhere. I'm with you. I matter to you. I matter to someone. I am something.
I open my eyes.
A guy is handing me a beer, so I take it. I should be going home but that girl looks like you. There are four boys to my right free styling. One of them is actually really good. I try to weave through the people to find a familiar face. I find one, and he's handing me a bottle. I don't know what it is, but I drink. It burns.
I'm outside again sitting on the curb. The streetlight that shines above me is a dark shade of yellow that glows off every wall. It reminds me of the night. The moon is looking at me with an intensity I've never seen before. I have a text from you on my phone but I don't want to open it. I don't want to be able to feel this much. I go to find the bottle again.
I'm laughing a lot now. I found the bottle. The familiar face is laughing too. Her boyfriend broke her heart last week.
Your silhouette is standing in the corner. It's beckoning me. I open your text:
do you need something?
I close your text. I close my phone and my eyes and my arms and my heart and I throw my empty beer can at that silhouette of yours.
I'm outside again. Familiar face is going to take me home.
The cigarette is glowing orange and I'm dancing to her car.
You don't love me. I don't care.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
I'm a loser.
I'm a loser.
And I'm all that I appear to be.
Of all the foes I have won or have lost,
There is one foe I should never have crossed.
He tallied tons more than I did my friends,
I'll not admit that I lose in the end.
I'm a loser.
I'm a loser.
And I'm all that I appear to be.
They say I look and I act like a clown;
My skin runs orange when I have my meltdowns.
My fears of jail are too real and acute,
A real man would self-aim and then shoot.
I'm a loser,
And I'm not the president you see.
I'm a loser,
And I'm all that I appear to be.
All I have done is the cause of my fate;
I'm old, bald, and stably overweight.
And so it's true pride comes before the fall,
It's also true they won't finish my wall.
I'm a loser.
And I'm not the president you see.
I'm a loser,
And I'm all that I appear to be.
(harmonica and don fade out)
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 1:53 PM UTC
Rebound.
Lead him with a leash,
drag him along like the dog that has died
but you won't give up your walk.
Rebound.
You took your shot at the love
but you missed,
now you think you can give it another try.
Rebound.
Bounce back in like there's no penalty,
like hearts don't break,
as if you can simply tape it back together
and it will continue beating.
Rebound.
Just because you don't have a scoreboard in life
doesn't mean the points don't count.
Rebound.
When everything is tallied up
at the end of the day,
will you really come out on top
like you hope?
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
moving forward from A to B
to eternity
from milliseconds to eons
from a tick of the clock
to a heartbeat
to a lifetime
each measure, a length of string
determined by Fates
or a burning wick
in a roomful of candles
where nothing can be earned
time spent
time left
with universes in between
life's images captured in a puddle
harmonic resonance ripples through the calm
radiating outward
energy rebounding and returning to stillness
reflections of a harvest moon
on white rushing waters
blue electricity crackling on crest tops
as waves unfurl on shores
and return to oceans
a vision viewed since antiquity
moments of time shared with ancients
and generations
tallied by stars and grains of sand
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 10:40 AM UTC
Let our life, be an Accounts ledger
birth is it’s first opening balance,
death, of course the closing balance
Intelligence is your assets (Right col.)
foolishness, worthless ideas, liabilities (left col.)
Heart beats are the current assets
soul seems to be permanent assest
Brain is your permanent Investment
valuable thoughts are current A/C
gaining success are like stock & trade
Friends are your general reserves
Good behavours, Interest accumulated
Love & affection, your profit,
divided by 50% as below:-
Affection is gross profit,
Love, surely net profit
children are earned bonus
education is your brand name
Qualification the patent
Knowledge is investment
work experience is premium account
The balance sheet should be equal
to be tallied on both sides of life
without any errors.
By Williamsji Maveli
Email:[email protected]
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
Tallied gifts be given not
They're more to be forgotten
One tear
One tooth
One eye lash plucked
One wish
One chance
One night untouched
One hand
One word
One tender soul
One ear
One eye
One breath to hold
One pulse
One gaze
One brink of dawn
One meadow
One hearth
They'll all be gone
Tallied things be given not
They're only for the taking
Tallied things be counted most
When allied with the breaking
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
This worm crawls through ****
Believing it to be mud.
How sad, how quaint.
It toils forth and thus it faint.
Left alone to die, to sleep, to bud.
If only, to could **** from that fortunate ***
After a tempest, the worm awoke.
The smell had exacerbated,
And now, the worm knew it crawled in filth.
It tallied on, fourth, through the zilf.
It hoped, wished, that it might be alleviated.
Only, it would not: a cosmic joke.
Bacteria and flies swoon around.
Cautious, curious to the worm’s presence.
It looks not like them.
Yet, the odd and unique is where they stem.
But, still, he lacks their essence.
They enjoy the **** he seeks the ground.
The worm saw the bacteria and the flies.
He did not like them, but he accepted.
He had joined their culture.
So, he greeted a fly, through he wished to punch her.
She smiled, as is etiquette. Yet, it percepted
That this is only the first of the worm’s lies.
There crawls our worm again.
Who began to search for **** across the land.
Confused and an idiot, he misses the soil.
No time, none left except for his toil.
He says he seeks the ground, yet he can’t see past his hand.
To ourselves, we deceive, we’re determined, but it is all in vain.
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 2:44 PM UTC
Hitting the bag hard. Contracting the muscles. Pushing the limits. Everyday is a workday in the gym. Boxing is a tough sport and injuries do happen, but the main draw is the test, and the endorphin high.
Outside the ring, time is more fluid. The clock continues to tick but, for most people, the seconds don't count.
A knockout can arrive in the blink of an eye. You think you know the ropes, the footwork, the patterns, and then wham!
Like a car-wreck. One minute you're buzzing down the freeway, listening to tunes on the radio, and kaboom, what the hell???
Instant change, up becomes down, and for some it's down and out!
Twelve rounds, the bell sounds, points are tallied, did you make the grade, did you put in your best?
It's everyday life played out as spectacle. Twelve rounds in the squared circle and then your time has passed.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
life is a game of science
art collides again with fact
measure each grain, each atom
love is a balancing act
remember all the good times
draw the future from the past
but, oh, the heavy sad heart
strong men toppled by its mass
walk the balance beam with care
tread the tightrope seam so high
thread the needle, if you dare
no room for error in her eye
oh, it takes such steady hands
just to calibrate your smile
see how far our distance spans
i've tallied every mile
the eyes of justice are blind
or, at least that's how it goes
but my darling sees it all
love is unjust, heaven knows
to all you men of measure
never guess or estimate
within the breadth of pleasure
there is room for such dark fate
and in the face of balance
we come to tip the scales
love rains in a troubled boat
no man could ever bail
this water weighs too heavy
for simple hands, silly pails
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
Rows upon rows they stretch across this field
Each one so unique from its neighbor
And yet, you asked me to choose just one
My eyes bounced from each one
The tall ones, standing strong and mighty above the rest
The bright yellow ones, gleaming with beauty
I wandered and gazed at them all,
until there,
I didn't find it,
but it found me.
You asked me why that one, it was not the most elegant,
nor was it towering over the rest
And I said to you,
it just was.
It needed no explanation, no defense as to why.
And in that moment I realized,
love is the same.
It requires no justification,
no aspects tallied up that equal a winner.
There is no right or wrong, perfect or imperfect,
it just happens,
without your opinion or consent.
It doesn't have to make sense,
in fact,
it probably won't.
But it's in that confusing and jumbled mess,
that even though your head is uneasy with questions,
your heart will finally feel content.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
A searing night. A price
tallied out and settled up.
I'm sipping down the size
of the smaller plights of times like these
in towns with bloodshot eyes.
Your coyote grin,
the gravel in
my creosote laughter were paving
the longest paths to saving graces
and filling up deaf ears.
I'm spilling every ounce
of all my guts
on your ears in the alley where I threw
up last year
when I disappeared from your birthday.
Your coyote grin,
eyes glistenin',
you laughed kinda quiet while walking.
Familiar paths. We're talking crazy
through bitter whiskey sneers.
But I think, this hot night,
I'm ready to believe...
Between the asphalt and the stars
Between the almost-fights
and rushing cars
Between the blurring downtown bars...
We'll find some common ground.
The town's lit up, we'll trickle down
to a point of least resistance
where we can bid farewell to arms.
Or I'll find my way back home
to 1130 Longstaff
where my walls can close me in.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
*when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility
when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity
when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune
now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise
the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river,
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day
recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace
so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we
proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being*
all too human
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
Idol Life
When you've read the holy scriptures of countless wise fanatics
When you've pondered the tallied tales of positive thinkers
When you've sailed the seas of helpful suggestions and poignant promises
When you've chosen choices cast in caring coy iterations
When you've jumped up and down embracing the enthusiasm of enthusiasts
When you've done years upon years of carefully crafted…eating…praying...loving
When you've walked down endless miles of isles to alluring altars
When you've run, climbed and stood in search of joy
And
When you have nothing more to show for it than a collection of geometric idols and savvy souvenirs
Cast in cried out salt and stripped marrow…
Are you done?
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC