"theatrics" poems
my childhood was removed from me
inside of a blue mustang
and what remained after that
I tried to barter off the highest bidder
but I grew,
not up,
but forward
further away
slowly releasing
hands of defiance
fists chock full of hopeless words
like anger, the flavor that aches the bone,
the cold kind,
more barren than the green of Christmas lights
glimmering off the icy veneer of a white picket fence
overeager, in the apathy of theatrics,
to strip off the remainder
because the empty feeling that followed
might one day
make a decent poem
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Are we fated to dance to the same tune alone in our separate universes?
Is it true that we must silently keep to our preordained curses?
Are we destined to swoon at the beauty of the moon at differing time slots?
Why were we given invisible ink to connect our lives' dots?
Must it be that our lives revolve around the whims of the sun?
Isn't it ludicrous that we won't see the intricate webs we've spun?
Was it the plan that we exist only in our minds and hearts?
Why do we have to tolerate starting when the other's ending and end at the other's starts?
Has it been written that we can only afford to infinitely chase each others heartbeats?
Was it foretold that we're trapped in a singular notion that never really fits?
Is the game set as such that we can never emerge as winners?
How is it that the ocean was made out of our tears that flowed from rivers?
Why is it that with our entirety we believe but do not know?
What's the reason for the path made clear but we're too afraid to go?
What does it entail to possess the very least but yet you covet it the most?
How do you pride yourself in something but not allowed to boast?
Why do we frantically scramble to piece together jagged shards?
Can't we just play this blasted deck of lousy cards?
Is it destiny or cruelty to have found then lost?
Why does it seem absurd that we have all its takes but can't afford the cost?
Is it the thoughts that **** or the emotions that debilitate?
Is it the challenges we take on or the curveballs we anticipate?
Why bother when sheer folly is all it seems to be?
Why tarry when the heart is free and the mind is ready?
Is it ridiculous to have found myself still very bothered?
Is it wrong to question fate that had always bound us tethered?
Why is the good always bad and the bad becomes worse?
Is it true that the harder we fight, the deeper we immerse?
Has life turned to be but sad little rhetorics?
Are we but performers on stages coerced into theatrics?
Is it time for me to surface this one-man submarine?
Will it be so that if I do, my journey would then begin...?
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Post-azure, cloud splashed sky,
washes with the suns descent,
breaking into melodies of sunset.
Fracturing into a blush,
the richness of the spectrum
makes itself known.
On a tangent of change,
amorphous clouds bleed
amber glow
and bittersweet combinations
of reds and yellows.
Vermillion streaks through,
and a few cloud folk turn titian,
like sumptuous surreal apricots
rotting in the sky,
that seem to augur
encroaching darkness.
Billows on the horizon
leak crimson,
like spilled wine on table cloth,
and pucker out
like blooms of flaming roses.
Fire refracted
coloured cousins of the sun
are dancing all about.
Here is the anthem
of wild transformation.
Here is cause
for quiet celebration.
Here at this fluent juncture.
Here at the closing of day.
The whole of the ocean below,
is the skies tremendous mirror.
It's reflection is variegated,
into variations a thousandfold.
Multitudinous, and ever differentiated,
distortions of above
ride the crests of waves.
Each apex is a new story.
Each new story,
just as soon as it is told,
comes crashing into trough.
Each finale is the ****** of beginning.
The dynamic roar
of the oceans ever-changing topology
is rife with meaning.
Colossal symphonic wonders,
the primordial song,
releasing upon: the uni-
verse continual,
sending the manifest
to move, with the give and strain
of immaculate design.
Here ensconced
between the safety of light
and the mystery of night.
Here at the oceans edge.
Above, shades of catalina-blue, in conversation
with the outer most cosmic-black
dismiss earlier brighter hues.
Tinged by the infinite nature of space,
the jeweled dome darkens.
Overhead, the first stars appear,
sky transparent to beheld blackness.
Luxuriant, pulling horizon, attracts
violet into it's unfolding theatrics.
Bloodied clouds turn purplish, then black,
a darkening rawness allures,
decaying with vivid beauty,
tragedies of a rouged romance
drug down into shadows play,
searingly alive, extraordinarily actual.
And then, the hush of dusk.
Darkness is felled, like silence.
Scintillating stars
strengthen in the nights
surrounding abyss;
giving radiance definition.
Dynamic Beauty
Lives In Transition,
Oppositions
Compliment.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
Get out. Get out of here.
If anybody poisoned the waterhole
it was certainly you.
Put the squish of your smile away
Why sheaf the knife in a lipsticked rictus
if it's going to end up in my back all the same?
Oh, spare me the theatrics.
If you only mean me harm
I'd rather know.
So that I can curtsey
and take the high road.
Mentor, if you taught me anything
during that winter
it was not to be weak.
And so you have my best regards.
And now you may get out.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
I am the first born millennial grown in the digital garden from transplantation.
The data stream flows along with my bloodlines,
Divided, interspersed, like a lava lamp of my own identification.
A bloodline that once worked the fields, and now works the fields of existence,
A bloodline that made its pilgrimage to new land in order to satiate the body,
has now grown to satiate inquiries within the self.
I reflect upon those occasions where I have been told:
“why do you care about the state of affairs for them, you are not of them, you do not act like them
so
you can’t be one of them”
and I clench my tongue, forgive them father, they know not of what they speak”
“Perdonalos padre, no saben nada de que dicen”
The climate of academia is both inviting and yet marking, I feel connected to both intertwined
bloodlines, and markedly separate in a way neither will ever know
“mijo, él esta ****** no dice nada que él no entiende”
But I understand, my name, my appearance, my lineage, they all mark a separation of that cultural
heritage, a combination, a divider,
that lava lamp burns hot from the up down theatrics of where identity will lie
I am the new millennial
Expect us.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC
Can't you feel my screaming heart?
I feel all yours and it's unbearable
To know everyone's intention may seem ineffable
Though my passion is emotion and empathy my art
Dwelling silent in a crowded room
To the right a pursuit of lust
And my left a lack of trust
Empty grins with their facade and doom
Another item has been stolen
My peers in an unknowing uproar
I see the culprits guilt pour
From his weary eye and coven
The ***** swoons the love of an unworthy patron
She gazes at me with a tempting question
Attempting to construct my envy and affection
My will is stronger than that seducing notion
The lonely man makes a joking inquisition
All the rest see it as a laughable gesture
I look with sad eyes to see his slouching posture
He wants to die in his pathetic position
The muscle bound dunce smacks his lips
Glorified as the acrobatic conversationalist
Strapped men in shackles and girls can't resist
His compensated shortage of yays and yips
A quiet smile looks on with a perfect mask
Playing pretend with an inglorious burden
Faking a life inside of her chaotic garden
Of hollow theatrics in which she basks
There goes the lad with his flippy hair
The little ladies want a picture with the fellow
Oh you're so rad the flocking lasses bellow
And, you wonder why I don't seem to care?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
Am I but a joke to you?
Am I so funny or rather, Foolish
that you cannot help but laugh at my 'theatrics'?
If I am, am I an inside joke
utterd by those who whisper under their breaths
while huddled in corners giggling?
Or am I the laughing stock of this little world?
The village idiot.
Am I dressed up as a clown behind your eyes
with a big red nose and a plastic smile?
The jester fool who's just a tool
you use to feel better about yourself?
Or am I that thing that makes you laugh when in solitude
or rather, loneliness at the thought of me?
If I am, then at least I can feel content
knowing who or what I am
Knowing I'm fulfilling my purpose
and that I'm doing my job to the best of my ability
for I am willing and able.
I ask of only one answer from you.
You who are quick to point and pass judgment.
You who are like a spinning compass lost without direction.
You who are walking in the abyss of darkness
holding a candle with no flame.
You are the same one who attempts to kindle a flame under water.
Do you know who you are?
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
He took the stage for a one-man show
A character of a hundred roles
Too many a script but he sure knows
To take a bow when the curtain falls.
A storyteller extraordinaire
In his endless soliloquy
Over a thousand and one affairs
Of all his quixotic reverie.
Two hands he proudly speaks at best
Which work like that of twenty men
From different realms of Sciences
Philosophy and Arts he studied them.
But what wound could cut so deep
That he can fool everyone but himself?
Before he drowns his sorrow to sleep
He hides his monsters behind the shelf.
He took his mask and off a smile
That he wore to get himself a crowd
And asked the mirror for quite a while
Did all the theatrics make him proud?
He was the Jack of all trades
Certainly not an expert in one
And his own game of charades
Made him a master of none.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
Carefree gum
Next to the schoolyard children
Who blaze in the mid-afternoon
Summer of dumb love
Sun
In the hour or, is it
The minute
That youth died so fast?
Our hair grays
Our eyes grow dim
Even the light
Cannot bond us closer
To our next of kin
What is in a word?
What is in between sentences
But pleas of insanity,
Pleas of desperate repentance?
Shallow are our
Graves
Dirt is heavier
Than air
The king and the queen
Never match
They will never be
A pair
Tearing through
The theatrics
Of college level actors
Money on the brain
Fame on the skin
Feeling tearing them
Limb from limb
Scene-rated the players
Wave their paychecks in the air,
Tear them to little pieces,
Making confetti out of their
Thought to be
Hard work
I turn the table
See the faces of the former parties
Hear the tirades
Of lost giants shot dead
On forgotten battlefields
And the only thing
That seems to be missing
Is that one and only
Upside right feeling
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Congratulations! You got:
Venus flytrap
This means:
You are not beautiful. You are ugly. A nuisance to someone else is what you need to survive but you can only **** and devour that which is small. You do not make a difference to humans. However, Venus Flytrap, someone will love you and love and then love you wrong. They will appreciate the drive and theatrics but you are too delicate as you need things other than the problems you're so dedicated too.
Once again, congratulations!
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
*Ever since time immemorial
Even before the existence of now defunct phenomenon
Society’s had a stranglehold on “goodness”, a fact not entirely circumstantial.
On the high pedestal of “moral high ground” it’s stood, a loose canon
At the behest of “moralists” and “immoralists” alike
Malleable to all manner of situational conundrums
Rubber-stamping all manner of questionable theatrics with lord like
Patronage, this artistic fashioned manner of duplicity detailed in compendiums
Of information passed down from generation to generation
“For posterity’s own good”
Rhetoric construed
To imply the wellbeing of every individual born.
Subject to the above I implore society to effective immediately
File for moral bankruptcy in the court of public opinion, humbly.*
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
There is no God
If there were, every smell would be sweetgrass
and lemon.
and
If there were not,
we wouldn't have noses.
So there it is.
It must be that
I failed to notice the shrinking days,
the ever smaller liaisons,
the patches of silence.
Then there came the equinox.
Everything was eight hours long,
and you were nowhere in sight.
Who is responsible for that?
If my skin is soft to the touch
and unwrinkled
if my hands work faithfully
and my heart also,
then I must be blessed.
If I have my heirloom ring,
if I have a blightless history,
if our galaxy is still cold in the
right places, and hot in the
right places, then I must be blessed.
And if I remain troubled
with all those gifts -
then I am doubtful, sour, ragged.
Not worth the love I crave.
I am a child at a magic show,
second-guessing the theatrics -
There he is, behind that screen,
with a dove and dowsing rod.
With a tiger, and a cage, and a key.
So I am troubled-
it seems that everything came
in the lapse after a kiss,
where everything which could be touched
could be ignored.
Then the kiss was gone -
and there was the world again
stark and unholy,
bright and blue as a bruise.
How brutal it is to live
on that third planet under the
sun, behaving poorly. How failure
meant nothing, in that orbit.
How brutal it is!
never to face the thing that sustained us
(not even to thank it)
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 8:36 AM UTC
****** soothes the aching,
I learned that trick from you.
Don’t bother with the counting,
that’s all theatrics, what matters is the blow.
You play something loud enough; you screamed
you can’t hear the imperfections.
Throwing my Plath books out the window
you murmured,
Talking about death means you aren’t ready.
Your silver has turned my fingers green,
for the last time. Until the next time.
You bruised my lips with a kiss
Now it will hurt every time you try to forget me.
Walking away, my hand caught in a doorjamb
you slammed it shut.
Broken fingers can’t hold on to anything,
you promised.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 2:50 PM UTC
There it was -
Among lost flowers
And drained cups of espresso.
Among corrupt cabinets,
And torrid affairs.
Among the soldiers and the artists,
Among the philosophers,
The drag queens and the disasters,
And T.S. Eliot and his mermaids.
There, in a smoky haze
Of toasts and time,
I found meaning.
Friends, lovers, actors,
Huddled together one cold October,
Not for pay, not for fame.
Drawn together merely to drink our fill
On the intoxicating elixir of humble creation.
It was there,
In those chilly nights
Of backyard theatrics,
In the raw camaraderie
Of presenting art for art's sake,
That I found myself,
Whole and true.
So many plays and shows
I have oft participated in,
And many days have passed
Since that blissful October,
But the vivid memory forever remains
Of the perfect cast of players bound together
In the pure glee of organic imaginings
As we explored the dark against the light.
Did we know?
Did we comprehend, then,
The magnitude of beauty to be found
Within the ties that held us together?
Perhaps the rest never did quite feel the current
Of the electric wonder we evoked beneath the stars;
Not only in our karaoke-laden performance,
But in our offstage whisperings and antics -
Friendships forged in a campfire flame.
I cannot speak for the others,
But as for myself -
A girl now disillusioned
By Louisiana cynics
And toxic hometown politics -
I am nostalgic for those nights
That I spoke of Michelangelo.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
Advocate for the world around us,
We are the only things left,
to hear our voices heard,
but the throats of our souls left parched.
I can only sit back and bask in privilege,
while i'm encased in invisible shackles,
and the person to my right, chained to me as well but just blissfully unaware.
We are together in mind
a connection, but it is lost because there is no Wifi.
We are together physically
a presence, that is unseen because the daily zombie grind pushes on.
We are together spiritually,
a thread, that is closed because we don't see a human.
And as the veil stays while we sip our Starbucks latte,
could you imagine if the curtain fell?
The pain rushes forward, and a suffering of another is felt.
The world we have lived in isn't what we are living for,
but designed for us, and it hides the suffering in a department store.
The theatrics is over now,
It's time to close up the play, remove the backdrops and settings,
see each others life in a new way.
Pulling back the curtain to see more is a hard thing to grasp,
because you're pushed from your comfort zone,
to see who we truly are.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 7:19 PM UTC
bold words are lettered in
handwritten phrases
on her wall
in blood red paint
tales of great conquest
tales of greater defeat
all woven with the same spanish thread
from a small villa north of madrid
he bears with him a golden box
in the secret pocket of his long coat
within are all the treasures
that could dazzle a young fair madiens eye
all the riches that could bend the back
of any petty flesh or metal merchant
with a careful flare and practiced theatrics
he pulls it forth to the awe of the gathering crowd
his trade-craft is the peddling of dark dreams
in a sleepless land
of giving just enough to tease into wishing
but never quite enough to persuade
as he himself was
all his work is woven from the same spanish thread
from a small villa north of madrid
woven to speak to the heart
with the rich deep earthen tones
found in spains muddy soil
woven to speak to the soul
with the heady lust of a spanish romance
the words on her wall
speak of her years with her one true love
and of their deep passions
and of how he had rode off to war
telling her he would soon return
and her long years waiting
watching the forever empty road
wearing her favorite dress
woven from spanish thread
from a small villa north of madrid
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
I don't wear black clothing (when I do)
because I think it'll make me fit in with 'cool' people,
I wear black because I like it.
I enjoy it. I think it's rad.
I don't wear black nail polish on my fingers and toes
because I think it's 'cool,' or that I want others to think so,
I put it on because I like the way it looks.
I like the chipping that happens;
I feel it's a microcosm of Time, itself.
Nail polish exemplifies Wabi and Sabi.
Besides, I have quite the affinity for black.
I don't wear black eyeliner (when I do)
because I think it makes me so metal,
or because I think I need makeup to look good,
I wear it because I enjoy the theatrics
and I like the way it makes me feel.
I don't have the style I do
because I want to associate with
Goths, Rockers, Steampunks or Metalheads;
I have the style I do
because I genuinely like the way it looks.
It just so happens that I get those labels
because people like to put people in boxes.
I don't do what I do
because I want others to notice and like me for it, if anything,
many others will simply mock and make fun of me for it,
but, ironically, much of that spite and disdain
merely fuels my relished rejection
of modern cultural normality and gender roles.
In times of identity crisis, how weird is it to self-identify?
I do what I do
because I like to do it,
because it makes me happy;
because everything is a way to express yourself,
if you only allow it to be such a medium,
if only you find things to use as such mediums.
I see it as Art for the body,
somewhat poetic and transient;
make of it what you will.
It's truly too bad
everyone misconstrues expression
based on their own psychology,
even me. I do it too, though I try not to:
I am not exempt from my own critiques;
I am, in fact, my closest frame of reference.
At the end of the day, though,
you just have to do what you like,
for people and words shall fade
but it is what you have within that stays.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
My ex-girlfriend and I used to play this game, I guess we made it up, called Sing That For Real. So at any time, when one of us said "sing (a song) for real" the other person had to sing it. With sincerity. Whether it was playing or not. Had to put their best effort into it, without any humor or undue theatrics behind it. Any song. You had to just sing the portion of it that you knew to the best of your ability. In public, alone, didn't matter. Over the phone. We would tell each other thru text sometimes. Sure, you could get away with not doing it and the other person would never know. But I never did. I always sang.
Because it wasn't really a game. It was a trick. A ruse to get the other person to open themselves up. To be vulnerable in front of you. Honest with you. To break yourself open--if only slightly, if only for a moment--without fear of judgement or insecurity. Without hiding behind humor or parody, to sing directly into the face of the person you love. Or on their behalf. At their behest. Have a moment of tangible honesty between the two of you. Show that person that you aren't afraid of anything, at any time. Once, at a deli counter on A1A, I sang "Not Fade Away" directly into her eyes. She showed me a secret Beyonce taught her at a pet store in front of the fish tanks. We duetted on “You’re The One That I Want” on the trunk of my civic parked in a starlit cow field. It was a secret promise we made to each other. A private joke, almost.
She hung herself in her apartment 6 years ago today. She was high on ******* She was bi-polar. She was off her meds. She was scared of herself and everyone else. I picked her up. I cut the belt. I puked downstairs in her garden screaming. I loved her so much and I'll never stop singing for her.
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 7:23 PM UTC
Taste the after-glow from a deepening twilight extravaganza of Victorian burlesque.
I am saddened by those Machiavellian splendours of geographical landscapes, which interfere with the dance of spirits between the mystical stones of druidry.
Have you ever tasted cheese from the New Forest?
There is a subtlety of flavours, and I celebrate the orchestra when torrential rain saturates the soul with flash floods of sensuality.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Different People regard Theatrics in different ways.
Theatrics, to me, are a celebration of mere existence, in ways.
Some people never seem to gain an appreciation for Theatrics.
Most save their Theatrics for special occasions, or vicariously bask in those of others.
Few embody their own Theatrics; identify with them, live through them.
The way I see it,
each day can be a reason to celebrate
with nicer than normal attire
for seemingly no good reason
or wearing some theatrical eyeliner
or to move with a bit of a dance from A to B
or to incorporate whatever combination of aspects
of theatrical expression.
You see, Theatrics, to me,
are a means for expression,
and, as an Artist,
nothing else can matter more
on a personal level
than expressing what it is
I have in my Mind.
Theatrics
needn't be restrained
merely to the Stage,
for the World is a Stage
and we're all playing our parts
so we may as well have a little fun
and celebrate each moment
with our own styles
of Theatrics.
But,
that said,
everything in moderation.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
Trite melodrama-
These theatrics, tiresome.
Just leave, little girl.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Hey, wake up to this living dream,
Strangled minds of future hope.
We are all atoms of naive serenity,
Fused with an higher scream.
To explore the theatrics of nature,
To acknowledge the only truth,
As working hands and support shoulders,
The crimes of untutored youth.
We have got to change our road,
Exchange the tires,
We had to hold so long,
Now the pain inspires.
They tell there's millions to touch,
That there's hope in hats.
For craves my heart to ride away to the absolute,
Like the ghosts of a burning cigarette.
Did they tell what was missing?
The eyes to see, peace at our time.
Did the books see fit?
Or they screamed of literal garbage.
For we may be unpolished gold pebbles,
For we may seem to be amateurs,
But once we swim into the seas,
The impurities fades as the gold shades,
And we welcome our hands to the ***** feast.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:41 AM UTC
It's that time of the year again
Our politicians put on a new persona
Nothing new compared to the previous gimmick
Decade old cliched stuff, on the repeat.
A costly road ahead with a hefty expense
Back-channels, bargains and deals , none can comprehend
Funding is secured, the plans are now been drawn
Delegation to the foot-soldiers, with ease and control
The demography and previous trends have all been accounted
War-rooms being set up, as the arsenal needs to be surmounted.
Minute by minute, hour by hour
The ***** games and abuse of power
Horse trading has begun,
The influential will re-run
Money, honey or even the hard ways
Just break the loyalty and build pathways
Media Cells activated on the double
Spitting venom and creating trouble
Plethora of photoshops and planted stories
Peddling narratives, worst than conspiracy theories.
Meanwhile on the ground, a different game being played
The pawns as usual disillusioned and dismayed
Onslaught begins - First phase division
Divide by nationality, status or religion
Hate-mongering and fear-mongering
No holds barred
Political-correctness and propaganda not that far apart
All kind of theatrics have been put to use
Needless to discount the petty rhetoric and all the abuse
Both left and right wing ideologies hand-crafted to look cool
To trap the gullible and make them drool
And nationalistic pride sprayed like chem-trails
Beyond jingoism, everything else fails
Morality and conscience have vanished into thin air
Utopian lands being promised, as if almost here.
The voter's are intelligent, they keep reiterating
It's just a bait though, to lure them for voting
But then again, what is the voter supposed to do?
Greater evil or lesser evil are the choices to make
Can it get any worst, is his obvious take
Confusion, delusion and a hasty decision made
Now crib, cry, swear and the same blame game
Cometh the next election, its the same game play
The vicious cycle repeats
Politicians are back to deceive and cheat.
Alright! Been there, done that
To err is human they say
Well! Guess what?
I'll willfully repeat that!
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 10:48 AM UTC
I didn't see your mysterious, where you hid it
So you came here to me with your theatrics
And played the most affectionate dramas
Indeed i fell, like a pack of cards, oblivious me- fell graciously
I have seen your mysterious, where it is hidden
So the next time you come with your enchanting acts
And roll my frail heart into a toy ball to be flung at your discretion
I'd assume your act, having mastered it, and play you too
OUI
Play you like you once played me
And indeed you'd fall, you'd fall like a pack of cards, to your own game, unpleasantly.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC