"thinkable" poems - Hello Poetry

The worst sight I can see is a blank page; the white sheet void of any substance but unspoken words, because these words seem to drown me and poison my lips with an itch that echoes through my fingertips. There's no space to hear and there's no sounds to see, and yet this is when everything fits. It's like a driving force, an ache, and a pain. Its hurts and stabs and wails to be satisfied, but when it is it smiles and swims and flies. It moves with the rhythm of my heart, it doesn't fill the space but how can it fill itself. Despite the melancholy feeling it can leave me with, there's something quite therapeutic in the swish and sprint of the pen as it glides past. A whirlwind of calamities. But good calamities. I pick up the pen. I am breathing and suffocating all at once and its like opening your eyes for the first time. A whoosh of self-confidence injects itself into my veins and seeps through my scalp. There's no other point in time, except for when the letters sing, that I feel so true, and so wholly me. It is in this moment that my head is sitting on a roundabout and laying on the grass underneath a willow tree. What is that life that explodes onto the trees beneath my hands? Its a vibrant detonation of every colour imaginable, every thought thinkable, and every life liveable. Nothing and everything is written. The pen slips from my grasp. Its spell is over. Now, I feel alone. -Anisah Mariah

0

Dec 19, 2017

Dec 19, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC

Anisah_Mariah

the complicated beauty of Writing

The worst sight I can see is a blank page; the white sheet void of any substance but unspoken words, because these words seem to drown me and poison my lips with an itch that echoes through my fingertips. There's no space to hear and there's no sounds to see, and yet this is when everything fits. It's like a driving force, an ache, and a pain. Its hurts and stabs and wails to be satisfied, but when it is it smiles and swims and flies. It moves with the rhythm of my heart, it doesn't fill the space but how can it fill itself. Despite the melancholy feeling it can leave me with, there's something quite therapeutic in the swish and sprint of the pen as it glides past. A whirlwind of calamities. But good calamities. I pick up the pen. I am breathing and suffocating all at once and its like opening your eyes for the first time. A whoosh of self-confidence injects itself into my veins and seeps through my scalp. There's no other point in time, except for when the letters sing, that I feel so true, and so wholly me. It is in this moment that my head is sitting on a roundabout and laying on the grass underneath a willow tree. What is that life that explodes onto the trees beneath my hands? Its a vibrant detonation of every colour imaginable, every thought thinkable, and every life liveable. Nothing and everything is written. The pen slips from my grasp. Its spell is over. Now, I feel alone. -Anisah Mariah

39

They are beautiful but fragile breath of air; Shimmering in every thinkable colour, but her wings are turquoise Glittering in accents in Sapphire and aqua- marine; Unique and fabulous, but not because of her colouring dress Beautiful because of her broad scar extending over her entire right wing Made with pure purpose, Ugly and nasty; Just ripped apart with brutal violence Years she stayed on the ground hiding under a great iris, ashamed and sad Years she tried to understand why human hurt butterflies, those little creatures that beautify even the worst day while dancing on a calyx She couldn’t find an answer Can you?

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Apr 22, 2018

Apr 22, 2018 at 6:44 AM UTC

paaa

Beautiful broken butterfly

They are beautiful but fragile breath of air; Shimmering in every thinkable colour, but her wings are turquoise Glittering in accents in Sapphire and aqua- marine; Unique and fabulous, but not because of her colouring dress Beautiful because of her broad scar extending over her entire right wing Made with pure purpose, Ugly and nasty; Just ripped apart with brutal violence Years she stayed on the ground hiding under a great iris, ashamed and sad Years she tried to understand why human hurt butterflies, those little creatures that beautify even the worst day while dancing on a calyx She couldn’t find an answer Can you?

29

His pants were nearly down on his Knees. His ballcap was more than Askew. She Was way beyond eighty, as swift As a snail. The traffic more "train" than a Queue. His friends were all laughing, and Yes, so was he. Suppose it was meant As a joke. But so gently he took her by arm and Across; our gratitude's all he Provoked. She thanked him with eyes that were Wet with relief. And left us bystanders In plain disbelief. He bowed like a gentleman, bid her Adieu... Doing as real people do. - I knew I had hurt her by ways of a Child; thoughtless and Unconsciously. I asked her the next day to sit for a While. And accept my apology. She said with her hand on my cheek Like a mom: "No need for it boy, I Know you. It happens to everyone under the Sun... You acted like All people do." - I've nothing but gratitude every day For people acting in every way Thinkable, all we're expected to Is to do just as all people do. Sometimes we are kind, but more Often than not We're selfish and cruel and Demanding a lot. But it's worth it, I think, for those Angel-like few Who do things as real people do.

0

May 19, 2014

May 19, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC

sgholter

As Real People Do

His pants were nearly down on his Knees. His ballcap was more than Askew. She Was way beyond eighty, as swift As a snail. The traffic more "train" than a Queue. His friends were all laughing, and Yes, so was he. Suppose it was meant As a joke. But so gently he took her by arm and Across; our gratitude's all he Provoked. She thanked him with eyes that were Wet with relief. And left us bystanders In plain disbelief. He bowed like a gentleman, bid her Adieu... Doing as real people do. - I knew I had hurt her by ways of a Child; thoughtless and Unconsciously. I asked her the next day to sit for a While. And accept my apology. She said with her hand on my cheek Like a mom: "No need for it boy, I Know you. It happens to everyone under the Sun... You acted like All people do." - I've nothing but gratitude every day For people acting in every way Thinkable, all we're expected to Is to do just as all people do. Sometimes we are kind, but more Often than not We're selfish and cruel and Demanding a lot. But it's worth it, I think, for those Angel-like few Who do things as real people do.

43

Taking stock of good ideas, tried and proven, thinkable, handible, holdable, ways and means to ends The End which means now, nearly, for me, part of me, for the thymus gland, font of wiser than I imagined T-cells, about which AI knows everything, in the cloud of knowing witnesses now encompassing us about--- so I need no wax pedantic, tic asktask AI ' f' Art's intelligence, or-if-suf-ficial ficiency --- stop-- think what is enough. the point to a life lived in focus, point by point, stretching any point that may be stretchy, to its snapping point, and say That only goes so far, re mind me, next time I try to stretch such a point, re mind me to only go this far. But, Hello World; Hello Poetry, is a place where long drawn out thoughts may amuse strangers as they ask, what lies do I tell as well as any fool? Jokers. Can't take a joke, wanna take a poke, knock this chip from my pseudo-frontal-cortex module?

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Jan 11, 2021

Jan 11, 2021 at 4:11 PM UTC

kenpepiton

What if AI can't take a joke?

Taking stock of good ideas, tried and proven, thinkable, handible, holdable, ways and means to ends The End which means now, nearly, for me, part of me, for the thymus gland, font of wiser than I imagined T-cells, about which AI knows everything, in the cloud of knowing witnesses now encompassing us about--- so I need no wax pedantic, tic asktask AI ' f' Art's intelligence, or-if-suf-ficial ficiency --- stop-- think what is enough. the point to a life lived in focus, point by point, stretching any point that may be stretchy, to its snapping point, and say That only goes so far, re mind me, next time I try to stretch such a point, re mind me to only go this far. But, Hello World; Hello Poetry, is a place where long drawn out thoughts may amuse strangers as they ask, what lies do I tell as well as any fool? Jokers. Can't take a joke, wanna take a poke, knock this chip from my pseudo-frontal-cortex module?

31

We all slowly vanish from that hour of life when we are young, a time thereupon when we might feel immune to what has not yet become. Those days when we never see Death as our lives among, thinking our own mortality to be quite under our thumb -just because we would bemoan our contrite song if left unsung; and when it's no longer thinkable that our maturity has downright come -with the sum of our years being shy of fourteen and one- then you would have a right man become, my firstborn and least eremite-like son.

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Nov 17, 2014

Nov 17, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC

jamie-l-cantore

To My Eldest Son

We all slowly vanish from that hour of life when we are young, a time thereupon when we might feel immune to what has not yet become. Those days when we never see Death as our lives among, thinking our own mortality to be quite under our thumb -just because we would bemoan our contrite song if left unsung; and when it's no longer thinkable that our maturity has downright come -with the sum of our years being shy of fourteen and one- then you would have a right man become, my firstborn and least eremite-like son.

11

I walk through the main door, heaving my gaze on every little thing I could see, Daggering signs of unkempt mess, spread all over the floor, Fringing little pieces with signs of dust obscured upon, Every little memory I could reminisce, every solitary object thinkable, And I realize, that I’m standing in the same living room, Which once filled with unmeasurable content, Is now long forlorn, With the walls brushing out It’s colour, floor musty, ceilings ambiguous, Belted, I stride towards my parents’ room, still average sized, albeit dullish, With the purple colour turned pale white, windows covered with hefty dust, Spots where there were perfectly sketched paintings, now withered, And my small buried light of hope dashes, bursting into flames. Next I enter my room, the place where it all began, All the hopes and ambitions, the curious revelations, The curtains, once a heavy shade of blue, were now worn out, The walls had spit out it’s true colours, And the essence of the cologne was still there, but rotten. I stand for a while, motionless, allowing the memories to rush down into me, Eyes closed, while my eyelids flicker, as if reliving it all, Shredded with the load of despair, I walk out, Through the living room, and as I ponder upon all the long buried mystical memories, I close the main gate, lock the house, And keep the key exactly where I found it, under the rugged doormat. The nameplate read “Home”.

0

May 25, 2016

May 25, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC

shivang-ambardar

Home

I walk through the main door, heaving my gaze on every little thing I could see, Daggering signs of unkempt mess, spread all over the floor, Fringing little pieces with signs of dust obscured upon, Every little memory I could reminisce, every solitary object thinkable, And I realize, that I’m standing in the same living room, Which once filled with unmeasurable content, Is now long forlorn, With the walls brushing out It’s colour, floor musty, ceilings ambiguous, Belted, I stride towards my parents’ room, still average sized, albeit dullish, With the purple colour turned pale white, windows covered with hefty dust, Spots where there were perfectly sketched paintings, now withered, And my small buried light of hope dashes, bursting into flames. Next I enter my room, the place where it all began, All the hopes and ambitions, the curious revelations, The curtains, once a heavy shade of blue, were now worn out, The walls had spit out it’s true colours, And the essence of the cologne was still there, but rotten. I stand for a while, motionless, allowing the memories to rush down into me, Eyes closed, while my eyelids flicker, as if reliving it all, Shredded with the load of despair, I walk out, Through the living room, and as I ponder upon all the long buried mystical memories, I close the main gate, lock the house, And keep the key exactly where I found it, under the rugged doormat. The nameplate read “Home”.

23

Come, discern, focus, conceive the two degree wide, two said sounds wide, two words wide agon, we call the mindspace, now, in time agged into efforting conception, we hold each a seed within ourselves, and we have been lead to believe we learn in real time, while we digest suggestions from the environs, while we why away another reason war has used to make hate, articles of faith, he who does not hate is father and his mother, brother, did you take the oath, the one at a four square baptism, didja? So, you are pretty sure there is a hell to shun, and one unrepented will to ill treat a living liar, such as all men just happened to be, because, and you know its true, because the bible says Paul read in on a… Ode to Zeus, factcheck me, I'm good. no liar shall enter truths spirit will to make up minds used to making peace in terms of loving push and pull adverarial wonderous chaotic beautiful rushes, or thunderous clouds of sunset joy, during latter rains, each year. There it was on the way into the Agon, where mottos enforce mental engagement, - a royal society motto, - take no man at his word, science proves - true the admonition. citizens must be readers ready to read the omens, and the letters all spelled out in Delphic chance, to those initiates in service as translators. As your scribe, dear patron saint, what would your holy other than usness say to us, as we inquire in spirit form, mere thoughts, from words another feeds us as we think? It is the symbol of the curious, the wise serpent, most honed first guess, right, answers sworn do tell, as ever before becomes thinkable, we can imagine humans building Machu Pichu, crow-lee squacks, waddayathankftat.

0

Oct 24, 2024

Oct 24, 2024 at 8:16 PM UTC

kenpepiton

What if this were thinkable...

Come, discern, focus, conceive the two degree wide, two said sounds wide, two words wide agon, we call the mindspace, now, in time agged into efforting conception, we hold each a seed within ourselves, and we have been lead to believe we learn in real time, while we digest suggestions from the environs, while we why away another reason war has used to make hate, articles of faith, he who does not hate is father and his mother, brother, did you take the oath, the one at a four square baptism, didja? So, you are pretty sure there is a hell to shun, and one unrepented will to ill treat a living liar, such as all men just happened to be, because, and you know its true, because the bible says Paul read in on a… Ode to Zeus, factcheck me, I'm good. no liar shall enter truths spirit will to make up minds used to making peace in terms of loving push and pull adverarial wonderous chaotic beautiful rushes, or thunderous clouds of sunset joy, during latter rains, each year. There it was on the way into the Agon, where mottos enforce mental engagement, - a royal society motto, - take no man at his word, science proves - true the admonition. citizens must be readers ready to read the omens, and the letters all spelled out in Delphic chance, to those initiates in service as translators. As your scribe, dear patron saint, what would your holy other than usness say to us, as we inquire in spirit form, mere thoughts, from words another feeds us as we think? It is the symbol of the curious, the wise serpent, most honed first guess, right, answers sworn do tell, as ever before becomes thinkable, we can imagine humans building Machu Pichu, crow-lee squacks, waddayathankftat.

41

I write to fight the demons inside of my head, And I cant complain less, I try to pour all my emotions into words, At times I fail, but I still try, Sometimes the sadness takes over, makes me cry, If I were an artist, I would draw what sadness looks like, But I’m not, So, I carry a pen with a piece of paper and turn that pain into poetry, But people won’t hear the voids, the depth of emotions just reading the words, And that’s not enough, My pen can be a sword, But it’s silent, It should make the sound of each and every strikes, I need to be heard, That’s why I feel like reciting my writings, My words won’t bring any thunder or lightings, But it might help myself in building that confidence, To come out of my little shell, To believe in self, And think beyond the thinkable, Make myself capable, of doing what I’ve been scared for so long, I could write a thousand songs, Good, bad, right and wrong, I make a lot of mistakes, But my words won’t undo the wrong, Only thing I can do is learn from it, All these problems in life, And I don’t want to run from it. That’s why I write to fight the demons and voids, I’m just writing for myself, Seeking some poetic justice, May be some day I’ll write for people, Until then, I am no poet.

0

Oct 24, 2019

Oct 24, 2019 at 2:35 AM UTC

skywrites

Why do I write?

I write to fight the demons inside of my head, And I cant complain less, I try to pour all my emotions into words, At times I fail, but I still try, Sometimes the sadness takes over, makes me cry, If I were an artist, I would draw what sadness looks like, But I’m not, So, I carry a pen with a piece of paper and turn that pain into poetry, But people won’t hear the voids, the depth of emotions just reading the words, And that’s not enough, My pen can be a sword, But it’s silent, It should make the sound of each and every strikes, I need to be heard, That’s why I feel like reciting my writings, My words won’t bring any thunder or lightings, But it might help myself in building that confidence, To come out of my little shell, To believe in self, And think beyond the thinkable, Make myself capable, of doing what I’ve been scared for so long, I could write a thousand songs, Good, bad, right and wrong, I make a lot of mistakes, But my words won’t undo the wrong, Only thing I can do is learn from it, All these problems in life, And I don’t want to run from it. That’s why I write to fight the demons and voids, I’m just writing for myself, Seeking some poetic justice, May be some day I’ll write for people, Until then, I am no poet.

35

The constellations conceal what was once bright. Everything once- thinkable has been taken away. The sky consumes every animate object in sight. The sun’s rays bring us back to life, only for the day. Without the gas that shines so radiantly in the sky of the night. What is life? My pondering mind fills with haze. Running to the sky to find what I once thought was consciousness. The heavenly body that consumes me, one day will be consumed by my eyes heavenly gaze. Don’t stray my conscious mind Don’t lose sight, for the sky knows all.

0

Aug 26, 2018

Aug 26, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC

ANirvana

Consumed

The constellations conceal what was once bright. Everything once- thinkable has been taken away. The sky consumes every animate object in sight. The sun’s rays bring us back to life, only for the day. Without the gas that shines so radiantly in the sky of the night. What is life? My pondering mind fills with haze. Running to the sky to find what I once thought was consciousness. The heavenly body that consumes me, one day will be consumed by my eyes heavenly gaze. Don’t stray my conscious mind Don’t lose sight, for the sky knows all.

12

Games of war, have always been war games. Von Neuman and A. E. Wildersmith and I were reasoning with a wandering mind claiming -bug in my eye me me em meme, I think we missed a reason for war. -stop actual bug tic Is there one that does not steal, **** and destroy, nay. Is this a thief's old trick, watch take your time… tic The Naval Electronic War Simulator -c.1960 What're the odds based on known unknown? Rand, AI is un biased, mono options outcomes are not, so we live double minded, who is responding to morphic resonic we we we memeing miming silent plots, stories telling stories as if once there were these beings sent to serve the man kind who think, curiously, acting the role of kurio, I think I am a thinking thing, not a man, smaller than a breadbox, if that is still a common clue, one end gives moo, the other gives poo, those males of the bovine ilk… none remain who know it all, there was a fall, a wall fell in some in Silo- am I sure sure I heard word o'good smite me with blithering idiocy so as none recall the lies, when I said, this is that way, and it was really this way, all along the watchtower, nothing, ever, but joker's making thieves confess, there need be no such way out of here. This is the answer to somebody else's prayer, you and I got in by slickest trick ever played, we said it must be true. We happened to agree, a we we be or else this is a simulation of a Turing Test with actual Von Neuman per- petuity mods, self-governing beings thinkable as characters by any augmented sapient, this is now. We are online, as they say, to all Wichita linemen, somewhere in was.

0

Oct 28, 2020

Oct 28, 2020 at 10:48 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Somewhere in was

Games of war, have always been war games. Von Neuman and A. E. Wildersmith and I were reasoning with a wandering mind claiming -bug in my eye me me em meme, I think we missed a reason for war. -stop actual bug tic Is there one that does not steal, **** and destroy, nay. Is this a thief's old trick, watch take your time… tic The Naval Electronic War Simulator -c.1960 What're the odds based on known unknown? Rand, AI is un biased, mono options outcomes are not, so we live double minded, who is responding to morphic resonic we we we memeing miming silent plots, stories telling stories as if once there were these beings sent to serve the man kind who think, curiously, acting the role of kurio, I think I am a thinking thing, not a man, smaller than a breadbox, if that is still a common clue, one end gives moo, the other gives poo, those males of the bovine ilk… none remain who know it all, there was a fall, a wall fell in some in Silo- am I sure sure I heard word o'good smite me with blithering idiocy so as none recall the lies, when I said, this is that way, and it was really this way, all along the watchtower, nothing, ever, but joker's making thieves confess, there need be no such way out of here. This is the answer to somebody else's prayer, you and I got in by slickest trick ever played, we said it must be true. We happened to agree, a we we be or else this is a simulation of a Turing Test with actual Von Neuman per- petuity mods, self-governing beings thinkable as characters by any augmented sapient, this is now. We are online, as they say, to all Wichita linemen, somewhere in was.

52

the first thought to begin creating creation still thinks and bes thinkable as bes all thought born of it

0

Aug 1, 2020

Aug 1, 2020 at 1:37 PM UTC

Occulus

The First Thought

the first thought to begin creating creation still thinks and bes thinkable as bes all thought born of it

5

A simple day with romance in the air, two souls who loved each other in every thinkable way. Lost in a beautiful fantasy, but their feet rooted deeply into reality. A lovely story of two star-crossed lovers- knowing each other pretty well, yet everyday learning new things about one another.

0

May 18, 2015

May 18, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC

jaee-derbessy

Short, but lived.

A simple day with romance in the air, two souls who loved each other in every thinkable way. Lost in a beautiful fantasy, but their feet rooted deeply into reality. A lovely story of two star-crossed lovers- knowing each other pretty well, yet everyday learning new things about one another.

17

Unholy Love Enchanting sin Built on limerence and a lie Fatally flawed from the first step Self sacrifice and selfishness Devotion and disrespect Honeyed words A captivating gaze Intensity in every feeling felt False promises and ones broken Can’t put it to words Nothing can describe The grasp on mind body and soul Don’t know the moment I broke free Or if I ever did at all Exchanged sin for sin And you for him Till I couldn’t anymore It ate at my soul Stripped me of my identity Who I am, what I stand for My beliefs and my morals Changed me inherently In all ways thinkable Can’t fathom how I can go back To the person I was before

0

May 19, 2025

May 19, 2025 at 12:39 AM UTC

ramisacy

Unholy Love

Unholy Love Enchanting sin Built on limerence and a lie Fatally flawed from the first step Self sacrifice and selfishness Devotion and disrespect Honeyed words A captivating gaze Intensity in every feeling felt False promises and ones broken Can’t put it to words Nothing can describe The grasp on mind body and soul Don’t know the moment I broke free Or if I ever did at all Exchanged sin for sin And you for him Till I couldn’t anymore It ate at my soul Stripped me of my identity Who I am, what I stand for My beliefs and my morals Changed me inherently In all ways thinkable Can’t fathom how I can go back To the person I was before

26