"theorize" poems
I have fears – they are very real to me. But contrary to what the some may think, my greatest fears are not rejection and abandonment.
My greatest fear is that everyone will continue to turn their heads while victims are screaming.
My greatest fear is that survivors will express exactly how they feel, whether verbally, or acting out, and they will continue to be invalidated by being told they need medication and therapy in order to control their behavior, thereby reinforcing what they learned as children.
My greatest fear is that victims will continue to be silenced by therapy, or numbed from medication, and the clinicians, the researchers, will continue to ‘theorize’ and develop treatment that, in the long-run, is not helpful because they, themselves were NOT abused and have no idea what really should be done.
My greatest fear is that survivors will continue to be lab rats in the development of treatment that is not helpful, they will continue to drop out, time after time, and they will continue to self-harm, ‘repeat the trauma’, and possibly commit suicide because they believe no one cares.
My greatest fear is that the statistics will grow and no one will do anything about it because they do not know what to do. These are the facts:
**A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds
More than five children die every day as a result of child abuse.
Approximately 80% of children that die from abuse are under the age of 4.
It is estimated that between 50-60% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as
such on death certificates.
More than 90% of juvenile ****** abuse victims know their perpetrator in some way.
Child abuse occurs at every socioeconomic level, across ethnic and cultural lines, within all
religions and at all levels of education.
About 30% of abused and neglected children will later abuse their own children, continuing
the horrible cycle of abuse.
About 80% of 21 year olds that were abused as children met criteria for at least one
psychological disorder.**
And this reflects only what is reported. Imagine what that percentage would be if all of the unreported cases were included.
And of the millions of children that survive the abuse, many grow up to be adults who are able to put it behind them, succeed and present themselves as an acceptable member of society, and many of them do not. But what are we DOING about it? When will people stop turning their heads? When will we finally stop, look and listen to these children being abused and to the adults who were abused as children?
When will we, society, decide that child abuse, and **** and ****** assault are important, and affect millions of lives every year, and that it can be just as deadly as cancer. When will we finally stop whispering and turning our heads and actually face it and do something to stop it, and effectively treat those who ‘survived’?
I hope it happens in my lifetime, and I hope I can make a difference!
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Romantic arson,
a thousand lovers burning
to the blooming flowers
of my accelerant:
amoral, senseless rage.
Because I do not
or will not consider
another vice
for your confessional.
Come shed indifference.
Thumb the holy water font.
Theorize inconclusive evidence
of life apart from love.
Crawl into
the vacant church
which is my heart.
Idolize Me.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 3:05 PM UTC
**** that **** This is poetry now. Can you say it isn’t real? Can you say my lowbrow barbaric mind doesn’t express itself? Can you tell me these words aren’t art? **** that. This outcry is whats comin next.
Them burnt cars and bullet scars,
***** boots and tittie bars,
forget to bathe, **** the shave,
my pillow case is made of pave-ment,
twenty years late on that first pay-ment.
I asked the question but got delay-ment,
on what the **** has this all meant?
My colours just distract, them smiles just an act-
you think I’m tokin and ******* and happy go-lucking,
***** im drowning in the bills I haven’t even seen yet,
throwin off the debts as the horse that rolls the best bet,
and don’t forget,
every second you lay down to lie them eyes and theorize,
youre just getten burglarized,
want a burger and fries?
Twenty years off your life- oh and the change too.
Twenty seven ninety-five,
thirteen plus the years I’ll spend,
locked up with nothing to tend,
no garden, no fruit, no love to loot,
no wide eyes to fill and no breeze to shoot,
just a chain gain filling my ***** with soot,
stabbing by the next poor guy,
jabbing by that suit and tie,
the key is not to fit it right- so that every turn reminds who you belong to.
And this is what I wanna do?
Hold up- I pay for that ****
Now I understand suicide you nihilistic gits,
taking hits while the rest picks up the bits and the red runs the slits but no one sees the slip.
Topsy turvy sliding down the grassy knoll,
the heads tumble but the dough will never roll.
No.
Its busy ******* me in, me and my ilk,
like me too much an *** to be thankful for robes of silk,
mommy’s milk, eleventh hours and the stockpiles of the dowry.
Soft as a baby,
never ****** on the sour but the sweet,
pink feet,
earned on thin green sheet and the red as the man is beat, beaten and burned,
turned spurned despite his age and whats learned.
What is learned?
If only I could tell you.
We’s on the same track , don’t ask me whats gon spell true.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
How does it feel
When life doesn't seem real
And you're floating about on your own
Your life seems uncertain
So you draw the curtain
Pretending there's nobody home
Don't theorize
Look in your eyes
They can't tell lies
Though you may disguise what you see
The mirror is free
Song birds are talking
And runners are walking
Be yourself
Be yourself
Be yourself
Be yourself
We need a tutor
So we built a computer
And programed ourselves not to see
The truth and the lying
The dead and the dying
A silent majority
Don't theorize
Look in your eyes
Are they telling lies
The ones that they learn on T.V.
What a way to be free
Be yourself
Be yourself
Then you can free yourself
Free yourself
See yourself
Then you can see yourself
Be yourself
a.s.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
A beautiful understatement
to see your hair graze your face,
startled but still treading,
in the soul red of your lipstick.
What life has been,
No more than a series of random anomalies.
How those trivial pocket-sized pieces,
tied in to envisage
to fix this inanimous reality.
How wayward me
lost in this purposeless dream,
at random to meet you,
augmented closer to declare,
the love people just theorize.
How life started for me after you.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
epitomize
and optimize
imitate
and recalibrate
streamline
and recombine
the evolutionary "line"
fireflies
and theorize
circulate
and gyrate
guideline
and divine
the galaxy and the stars
moonrise
and clockwise
death rate
and procreate
sunshine
and lifeline
laws of nature are defined
maximize
and re-size
penetrate
and migrate
bloodline
and decline
the story of our world
allies
and despise
prostate
and dictate
enshrine
and benign
generations throughout time
endings
and beginnings
losing
and winnings
and everything
in between
is what we find
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 4:44 PM UTC
In dreams
Allowing oneself
To be
Within
Without interruption,
Without distraction,
Without aberration,
Without confusion,
Is to dance among with stars of space
Void of the fear of the death.
In dreams
Swimming among the
Stellar ethers
Of interplanetary mysteries,
We see all that
Was,
All that can be,
But not,
All that will be.
Here we theorize
Or potentiality
Floating in the first and last
Of
Spaces.
But,
Because of fear,
We see such places as Death.
The deepest oceans
Hold monsters beyond imagination.
The darkest caves
Pits of fall jagged, wet, and sharp.
The dankest of houses
Holds pasts too painful to see.
Because of the fear of Death
We hold ourselves back
From being free.
A light in the dark
Is but
A comfort.
Trust oneself.
See through the dimness.
Let go.
All angels who have been
And are and will be
Have walked the dark road,
Washed in light when they arrive.
Are they they?
Are we we?
Am I you and you me?
Can it be
That we are the same,
Just molds of longitudinal and longitudinal
Circumstance?
Close your eyes and become
What you see.
Feel the cool water brush
Under your fingertips.
Above, the clouds break.
A shot of light.
Presence of a million souls unite.
We have been.
We are.
Do not let
The Fear of Death
Tell us
We Will Not Be.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
The day begins when
moonlit sky
smothers the land in darkness
while sun
is shy.
I light
the hundred candles
slowly
gazing into each one
one at a time
time, the measure of
each flame.
Time is that length of stride
It is the path upon which
all life ambles
fighting the mysterious current
but unable
to avoid
the departure we call inevitable.
Each candle's light is power
it cannot be measured with the mind
we ask time of the flame's life
but
does the flame truly ever die?
I see a hundred flames and
from where did they come?
I imagine them as humans.
Does a man, born into darkness,
imagine the convenience
of sight?
Does a man, born alone,
imagine the blessing
of another?
Men dream of an afterlife
of a god
of an in-born purpose to one's life
so,
what is so impossible about that?
We measure the machine's intelligence
by its ability to think for itself,
but
surely the irony
is in what gave us such ability?
Or in whether thinking for ourselves
"is" life?
It is too much for a man
to give in
to imagining
the true power of creating,
when to create,
a man can only put carved wooden head
on carved wooden body
and **** the strings
in so doing, create life.
The atheist
will latch onto the popular reason
against a father
and will tell us that
we must not believe in anything ruling over us
believe instead that this made us
this
anarchy
luck
randomness
something
I don't know
lets theorize
let's not answer the question yet
let's not fool ourselves
let's not trust that book
let's make our own
let's make ourselves
let's change man to woman
let's ignore the conscience
we're not alone in that
laws are meant to be broken
when we can't make anything new
let's...
let's...
let's...
destroy the world,
because that's also an unbroken rule
and humanity
is already
broken.
I scratch my head.
What do I know anyway.
After all, I'm no one important.
The herd moves:
he who leads the herd, is no less the herd,
than he who worships the herd.
The first candle goes out.
My eye cannot measure its lacking.
Candle... after candle... and the next candle
snuffed in its own time.
It is only when the tenth candle goes that I notice the difference.
The room grows darker, like a misguided world.
When the last candle fades,
I feel the shame of destruction weigh heavy upon my soul,
but,
then I see it,
reaching beneath the door.
I ****** open the windows
and a wondrous dawn's light floods the room.
Yes, I forgot.
Where does the flame come from?
I will never know,
but I know, whenever it seems darkest,
something will catch fire
and the world will be illuminated
once more...
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
A Ballad For A Thin Man.
Understood backwards. Lived forward. Life.
Haunted by diverging others. Us but not. Wraiths.
Ghosts of what if? Who then? What might have been?
Leave room. Turn left. Lovely house, wife, retirement.
Leave same room. Turn right. Shack, loneliness, poverty.
Theorize games. Physik quanta. Slide down strings.
Into Wonderland, Oz, Middle-Earth. Narnia.
All the places that don’t exist and matter the most.
Where doors open up to impossible possibilities.
Fight your way through every day. Pit bull of potential.
Just do your work and be kind. That is a separate peace.
We may be others in other universes, but here we are just us.
**** it up. Love your life. Do what you must. Soldier on.
Real realities can really hurt. Take it like a Man. Or Woman.
Be grateful for your trials. Trials are you. Struggle.
Mount the philosopher’s donkey backwards, advance.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 5:16 AM UTC
In meadows, rich with clover, I have seen them here before;
those industrious little creatures at their pollinating chore.
Now the land is strangely silent, was Rachel Carson right?
Are we killing all the bumblebees? Have they made their final flight?
There are those who point to climate change as the source of all our pain.
If the bumble bee is dying, it is heat stress that’s to blame.
Others theorize a virus as the cause of their demise;
an illness ravaging the hives and emptying our skies.
I even heard one scientist make the hypothesis
that our overuse of cell phones is the cause of all of this.
Could it be that our usage of glyphosate is to blame;
As GMO spreads on our fields, our crops are not the same.
Monsanto is an Agri-Corp with bought friends in D.C.;
A “friendly Legislature insures profitability.
The F.D.A. is slow to act; Congress drafts obstructive laws.
It seems to me, just possibly, they already know the cause.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
i can picture it
dusty desert roads
old motels when the
sky opens up and the
holes in the tent leak
the empty rooms and
bare mattresses of a
creaky single wide
a patch of wall where
a cross once hung for
so long the wallpaper
holds its faded image
payphones and
diner booths
card games and
cold pews
*(sunbeams dreamily
landing in your eyes)*
i can almost taste
cola flavored slushies
cans of beans and
cigarettes and coffee
and smell burnt pancakes
egg casserole the way grace's
mom made it at home
secondhand smoke a bonfire
made from incense and an
abandoned white church
i can hear the songs
the laughter tears and
screams to heaven over
rumbling rubber tires
i know the way they
talk and theorize
argue and laugh
cry and pray
i've felt it before
somewhere here
and there in
twinges of time
but nobody ever claimed
you could wander the
world in one day or that
writing a gospel was easy.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
a bean or a pod having motivation inside recreating
life more energetic and clever than any parent
then get ate or flushed down ten million toilets
infiltrate society with words because it is in sewers
sanguine and quixotic indifferent
a breath is toxic to me
I venture Walter Mitty like fantasies theorize
tomorrow when I forgot yesterday,
introduce substances to discourse entertainers
abstract the emphasis transcendentally
blue-sky enterprises authentically created as I
turn around and cry.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
No way for her to ascertain
the ashen carpets of erasure
randomly assigned to the tapestry of garish
hope's circumstantial hopscotch squares
with a body already incommodiously perched
upon legs submissive to the here and now's
drunken mercury
Alone she has been left to sweep up
the gravity that hobbles optimism
in the hops of faith around the ambivalence
of horizontal authenticity
Left alone to weep on twitching roots
and theorize a rally bloom in spite
of severance in tune with sparks of closure
The shadow of her sunken chin emits
embroiled tributaries of respawning yesterdays
Queen of checkerboard embodiment
her rhythmic rule entails zephyrs of endurance
in the vacuum of fulfilling prophecies
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
sometimes you wish things were different
that every day wouldn't wake up the same homely person
somehow you could be ****** into something less generic
less like your life, where each boring second
is dripping a canyon in your heart's ice age
theorize that maybe you speak a hidden language
something ancient, that can unlock dead secrets
by virtue of how your eyes drift in a set of hexes
if you drew white triangles on the right misty morning
you'd wake up anew to a beautiful sun dawning
and a garden of different faces to choose from
pick one that smells of fresh rain on iron
that never distorts into angry clouds spitting caustic words
you dream about that perfect jawline and how the hair falls just right
but then
you remember
oh
...
this isn't my perfect picture, this is human
this is
bleeding
broken
bruised
a flurry of imperfections
a talented accident
an impossibly improbable confluence of the shy words love speaks
planted by chance
abruptly lucky
forcing a hand out of the ground to grasp the air that flees
as though you knew this destination was perilous
by virtue of murky precognition through your electric embryo
as though your mother had muttered all the secrets before she killed you
and sent you again through the white door to cold air
so now you chant and you pose and you powder your nose
forcing yourself behind glass
into a frame
stood up straight
leering into the mirror just to steer yourself queerer
fighting natural finesse [in compatible] dresses
used to be so perfect
under the knife you're worthless
wishing in wells and walking on shells
someday you just might reverse it
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:27 AM UTC
when you're there i pine for you
like a stupid little intellectual
i theorize your face
make up stories about your eyelids
how they close like a hardcover book
sheltering your wisdom from the judge
you let it spill out to me
your ***** brine
tenderizing my leathery exterior
into broken down, cured meat
you freed me with your trust
i was savory, salty with your laughter on my tongue
you've been waiting for me
but i cannot come
if we are to ever be in the same room again, together
i would smother you and oppress you with
love, tainted by imaginary things
like the fable of us
like my contentment
like your hand in mine
clasping surely,
silently,
home
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
The highest of all with serving rounds
never ending desire of expectation bound
Hating qualities of whom they despise
trying to get approval impious surmise
They follow and try to please all in sight
watch carefully as they over load on trite
Compelling the audience with their drunken imperfections
watching them tumble over barrels and start theorize direction
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
You're living out a death wish
And I am too
With every cigarette we smoke
Every sip of poison that runs us thru
And life plays this ruse
Where it pretends to be big
But it's all bark and no bite when we remember our future in the clouds
We're excited to live and even more
so to die
The road to awe
The greatest surprise
Wonder we might
About what's upon the other side
I feel we already know
We already see a meager slice
i theorize what we'll find
Is the rest of the whites in our eyes
That ****** mother type white hidden beneath our iris
The teacher of our pupil
Blue vines intertwined with immaculate prospects
Having never kissed oxygen
This is not a love story
This is death
This is the illusion of an end
This life is the speck of gold in a deep brown eye
Small and obnoxious
Beautiful and important
I am speaking of the gateway
To behold our unbloomed glory
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
i was born in the middle of a question
one of those that people theorize about
one of those science tries to explain and religions preach over:
'why do you hate us so much?'
see, my black skin was made in my mother's womb
and that hate has been passed to me through generations
through my father's blood
and onto this skin of mine.
it resides in my fingertips, my digitals contain ****** scars
behind my teeth there are agonized screams
and inside my womb are the children i had taken away from me.
why is it that even though i can move my arms freely, -
i can throw a punch if i lose myself - i can still feel
the shackles around my wrists?
why is it that my neck feels tight at the sight of every tall tree bench?
why
is
it
that you still hate us so much.
even after all this time i can still see, trust me, even though you try to hide it
i can still see it in your pale eyes
and in every thin lipped smile
in every unwelcome touch to my head
in every single word you say to me,
in every bullet you put in my chest
in every filthy word that comes out of your mouth
in every idea you try to spread
in every step you take behind me at the store
in every single right that you deny me
i can still feel the hate.
and it is the god's honest truth
that i will, whatever it takes, try to make sure
that the black child that shall bloom from my *****
and that shall not be taken away from me
will be able to live with the blessing that is its skin
and without the burden that is your existence.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
this lyric licks your face,
leaving you-salty-caramel
smiling, while listening to Janis, singing
”(You Don’t know What It Is Like) to Love Somebody”
no babe,
nothing lasts,
not you, not love,
not me,
no matter how hard you
rhyme, theorize,
forget and memorize,
life’s only constant is
constantly refreshing all,
endlessly remembering
and forgetting how to
hold on to a heart, to love...
sometime a breeze, usually a hurricane,
comes along, prying your hands
off what you got, or,
prying your eyes away
onto something new, cause
that’s just the way it is
with human foolishness,
you gotta
“to walk, talk,
rhyme and theorize,
forget and memorize,
always refreshing,
knowing that
nothing lasts”
until it maybe does...
———————————————————————————————
“To walk, talk, rhyme and theorize, to forget and memorize, always refreshing, knowing nothing lasts, except things that last forever, last never, poems and decisions needing completion, choices, reordering songs loved best, replete all sorrowed pains, uplifting prayers, hallelujah hymns, last rites....”^
—————————————————————-
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 11:36 AM UTC
Dearest,
You wrote me a letter once and the last line said
"I choose you."
The words were musical to me, but they felt more like they were
meant for you. I think that is what made them special, that they
were the words you needed to hear whispered in your ear and so
your heart opened and whispered them into mine, because just
maybe I needed them too.
Well I've written some poems for other people before in days
gone by and I've poured words meant for me into the open hearts
of other people just to find that their jar was already full, or
perhaps it wasn't opened in the first place.
And now I know you're scared because what if their veins hadn't
been full of predetermined sweet nothings given to them
unnecessarily by others in this confusingly backwards way? What
if their jars had been open and accepted my insecurities just to
sing reassurances into my ear?
I'll entertain Fate on my doorstep for long enough to tell her
that I am glad, for if she had allowed this to happen I would
have been unhappy. Fate crafted the individuals before you
with a fatal flaw because she knew that I would have
ultimately been disenchanted, downtrodden, disturbed. And so
with a gleam in her eye she led me to you.
And perhaps you'll theorize that this, then, was no choice. Fate
did it for me, yes? My response is as follows:
I chose you long before Fate threw her hat into the ring. Or
perhaps she had thrown it into the ring and blew the wind just
so on that first summer day when I saw your face, red-cheeked
and blue eyed, brown-haired and loud-laughing. Even if she
had, she still let me choose. For Fate only modifies the
environment, but the heart is a complex, wild thing that is not
to be tampered with. So when a million fireworks rattled my
ribcage the second I saw you, Fate smiled. Her plan had
worked. I did not decide that I would feel a small earthquake
inside of my body every time I laid eyes on you. But my heart
chose you. Unashamedly. Instantly.
Perhaps it once chose the others, too. But upon seeing that they
were not for me, it paused. It took a while, but it moved on.
Then there was you. It was afraid at first, but Fate took it by the
hand and showed me that your jar was not empty. And then
you showed me that it contained everything I needed to hear
within it. So I did not move on. I chose you. I choose you, still.
Forever. Until your jar is full and Fate tells me that it is time to
close the curtains, draw the shutters, lock the front doors and,
someday, leave the house.
But something tells me that I will begin to send postcards to my
former address. And perhaps I'll stumble upon the threshold,
years later, and find a jar.
And I'll choose you.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
These subcategories of articles
That separate theory from fact
Are lines that, really,
Are quite unclearly drawn.
Categories for theory and qualia
That put me under the impression
That everything is based on a conjecture
And it's all in my head.
Qualia is defined as being subject
To your sense perceptions
Brought on by stimulation of phenomena.
Theory is a system of ideas used
To explain something.
But don't we theorize everything,
Based on our qualia?
If we perceive that a rose is red,
And we theorize that this type of rose
Will always be red because we will always see it red,
Does that really make it red?
Is my red your green,
And you only call it red because to you need to call it something?
Or is that just our theory that to be comfortable
Is to fit in and be accepted by everyone?
And that to challenge what is called fact
Is to be rejected?
Where do we draw the line
In these thickly worded and sinking articles?
Is it where we can finally say that
Everything is based on theory that our qualia subjects us to?
If so, am I under the correct theory that
I really am alone?
That my sense perceptions just play tricks on me
So I don't think to hard, or go insane?
Is insanity just theory based on qualia?
Or maybe I should be under the theory
That being a thinker like this
Subjects me to the unpleasant qualia of a perceived headache.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
Oh why do you complain so ignorantly
Oh why do you agonize so self adoringly
Oh why do you hide behind your
my -s - cries -ties -chimes
-spies -guise -why-s -hives
theorize and disguise
with big vain eyes and lip bites
why don’t you instead
analyze
recognize
tranquilize
and surrender just
to neutralize
so that
you can
minimize
and fly
to skies
and glorify
wise
fireflies
exquisite
butterflies
and get their blessings
to ionize
don’t you know yet
all elevated beings
use their wings
to alter
dimension just
while I
crystallize
and womanize
for you
so that
as we energize
our vaporized
do carbonize
seeds
that will stabilize
unionize and re-rhapsodize
the universe
with our
glorious lullabies
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC