"tirades" poems
My mind is full of tirades
A tempest fills my brain
I've lost a part of myself in love before
How gullible I've been.
Would you rather I pour my heart out?
Spill my passion let me bleed?
I apologise. **** myself in front of your eyes.
Take off my mask so you can see where my vulnerability lies.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
**Parades of knaves,
And smitten sheep;
Came to pervade
OUR hide and seek...**
*Depraved – I caved
To strut; to seek
Tirades of graves
With CREEP antiques.
CHARADES engraved
On my physic;
Enslaved, I waved
Through gift-wrapped chic.*
**For Beneath enclaves,
She seeks the meek
whose souls – she'd flay,
To Hide-and-TWEAK.**
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
To feel this passion again, as natural as blood flow the electronic rhythm in a pen.
My fingers tap-tap, click-clack machine gun attack as my imagination blows away at this crazy syntax.
heading throbbing again mind flooding over again where is my pen?? where is my pen!!, over and over and over again....
This will be long, much like an over played song, but the vibe is there the rythm jagged but strong, undulating like a soca song, but so much farther along........I have to go in this written song.
Where does the fuel come from at the end of the day? so i say , so i pray....... the fuel to push along with each tumultuous day. Look around! everywhere is a mess! and civilizations are crashing down, half of them relaise even less seem to stress,
Not a political soul, but a humanitiarian? i would like to think.... as far as my darkness inside allows; unpredictablility in oneself and in what lies ahead, but headstrong enough to go through knowing its a must rather than a wasted doubt.
I think its time i lent my pen down another 40 days and 40 nights, all ten of my eager companions;i shall rest them now, so for another day lies more interesting tirades of unrest.
Sleep well my daughter sleep well my child. Daddy sleeps well knowing your right next to him sleeping tight in snug innocence, oh what a forgotten delight.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
I chronicle in rhythm and rhyme,
Scribbling, jotting, imaging the times:
I dug down to Lucy,
And China's Great Wall,
Compared Viking raids with personal tirades;
Asked God questions, questioned Jeff Sessions,
And all of that where-with-all.
I've called wrong out, and written about
Our scandals, all fancy or true;
I've offered you solace,
Even opened my wallet,
And grieved when it was due.
I've been self-righteous,
And sometimes right selfless,
When parsing my love for you.
But now it should end,
I've less left to send,
And so love I bid, Adieu.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 4:25 PM 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
They're brown.
Earth-colored, if you will.
With a slight tinge of green, if you hang around long enough.
But there's more.
There's history, of a tragic sort.
I doubt you'll stay around long enough,
To watch everything unravel.
6 letters.
I'm not some Nabokov beauty.
Well, technically, by age, yes.
I don't go for the older sort.
It was a term of endearment,
But now, it's pure rage.
5'3".
I have a tiny frame. Smaller than most.
I'm not intimidating.
You can pick me up, and throw me down.
(Though I'd prefer you wouldn't.)
32.
Battle wounds. They tell my story.
All over.
Wrists, forearms.
Thighs, hips, ankles.
It's too easy.
13 years.
13 years filled with pain and insanity.
Filled to the brim with memories.
Terrifying memories of watching booze-induced tirades.
They were so oblivious to my cold breath.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
perhaps we do not wish to admit,
that the majority of the words we speak,
the conversations overheard, even without intent,
leave us not awash, not suffocating, but
mesmerized in an awful way
squelching tirades of banality,
humdrum housework life's tirades of
meeting basic needs, functionaries of life,
bureaucrats of our domestic affairs,
accountants calculating marginal cures,
overridden by the occasional impulse,
which delights until it too
is humdrum-ed out of existence
a passing blazing ambulance
begs to contradict,
reminders that there are
crevasses on the city streets,
that in minuscule moments,
life becomes twisted making our lethargy,
a course 101 introduction to tragedy
but this is not the norm,
this imbalanced equation,
1X = 99 whys,
to survive,
to justify,
to mediate
between these un-counterbalanced weights,
I write poetry
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
God help us, Imamu—stop playing the fool
as you babble unhinged in your kente hat.
Bebopping Mao is so very uncool;
what up wit dat ?
Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful)
and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats
inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful
in the streets.
Predictable tirades where Whitey’s the foe,
attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric
gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show:
dull dialectic.
Who knows why the liberals that bankroll you love it?
Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is?
You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it,
mired in the shizz.
Your lines are pure mannitol: dumbed-down *******
(The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!)
The syntax is whack in your ghetto refrain.
Snap fingers . . .
Still you wait for your war—or the Black Star-Liner . . .
Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money.
Your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner—
it’s not funny.
Insulting, belittling others more noble;
your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty
Just putrid black waters, the flow uncontrollable
under the city.
Inside of your Kabaa are yet many idols.
Your New Ark of verse did not save from the flood.
You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals
but draw no blood.
Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing.
You wrote for the stage and said some of it well.
But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing,
a nasty smell.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
The memory of you may fade someday, just as the scars on my body. Equally the pain you left behind may never be seen to the naked eye, but you don't need a microscope to decipher the origin of my torture.
The moment I decided to begin to forget you, my body began to fight back. Attempting a last ditch effort to stay committed to you. It continued to taunt me. Reminding me time and time again that resisting the urge to love you was an ugly futile effort that most likely acted as the key factor to my demise.
You are a part of me. No matter how much I fight it. You moulded me into something so vile and vindictive, yet so passionate and loving.
In breaking me, you taught me how to love. And what to avoid. And how to reject someone.
This is brainwash I'm spewing. I still believe that who you made me to be is actually someone I need to be. Consequently I'm lost whenever you are around because without you I cannot function.
My thoughts are tirades. My emotions are garbage. You might as well give me a name tag that says Oscar because day by simple little day I still wallow in the filth you created through the mind games and the mental torture.
You abused my gullible delicate soul. My fragile heart couldn't bare to watch me suffer so I broke off a part of it and left it behind as a parting gift. For you and only you.
How ****** up must I have been to deem you the only recipient of my good byes. I was only dishing out what you wanted hear... What you trained me to do.
I may have gotten rid of you, but what you left behind were the unbearable scars of your love.
I can't breath through the PTSD.
I can't breath through the foggy memory of your love.
I loved you, but you broke me.
Your love is a torture that I don't have the luxury of abandoning.
You bled me dry. Every fiber belongs to you.
To this day, I still strive to please you.
That is the sick truth of our love.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Race-baiting covers for agit-prop agents
splitting white hairs in their dark distress;
with name-calling, bullying, lunch money payments
and shifting the blame for their people’s mess.
Reparations are due for your boring screed
that you scrawled at the helm of the Black Star Liner.
You owe it to those who were forced to read
your obtuse agitations (you Afro-whiner).
Poisonous shout-outs to fallen comrades:
holy Saint Michael in reaper’s hood—
endless blathering racial tirades
poor comrade—your dreams are misunderstood.
You’re obsessed with injustice. That’s nothing new.
You’re a David anointed to overthrow Saul—
(as long as he’s white and less rabid than you,
oh prophet and scribe of the activist call…)
Stay mad at the system. Revile all your foes
with raving, with preaching, with bitter bad words.
Insult all your enemies; list all your woes
as you document stink on your turds.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
History is a pendulum
swinging perilously
back and forth
over our shared humanity.
Slicing bitterly
at the air above me
with a visceral hatred
for all the good things
I hoped we could be.
Kinder to hater,
forgiving to denier
loving to crier
sharper it slices
cutting the air cleanly
leaving me feeling it keenly.
Wild rhetoric
going viral,
virus of white power words
spreading like the plague,
a poisonous and bubonic phage.
I struggle to stop it,
this rising tide
of tired tirades,
republican charades
turning different skin shades
into the enemy.
These neighbors are our family,
but the pendulum sees them
separated by the serrated blade,
exhausted by the hate
and violence that blazes.
History returns to sicken
my sorrowfully stricken
heartbeat.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
I am lost in humanity’s sea, that great wind swept expanse of self indulgence and heartbreaking reality.
I seek the emotions of peace where no such emotion exists, only that of the state of peace, the situation of peace;
negotiated by power ****** and money makers. The heart and soul have nothing to do with it instead; it is a chip to be thrown upon the worlds table, a tool to justify misguided means.
The elements of true peace are far flung and their intent, jaded in envious green shades of self servency.
I scream into a canyon of wonder, and singular echoes return and return.
My voice; the only answer to my only question. I ask the winds of this willowa to cease and calm their tirades.
Instead, the request falls upon emaciated ears and hardened hearts.
A world exists in this expanse where my unheard calls ring. The din of self absorption outplays my simple plea.
Instead the flags of bias, the banners of silent hypocrisy, flap in winds of fouling air
Upon a society that has no care for the simple emotions, those of peace.
The hard, cold reality that I am forced to realize.
The banters of the ignorant that brings tears to my eyes.
Some may call my wondering that of the mere naïve.
Then I am that in these terms.
For my wish is to see all
At peace.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 3:25 PM UTC
From where did this dark cloud come?
This black fog that has descended upon you
That you breathe in, tainting the air
That clings to you like soot
Seeping inside through the pores of your skin
Where did it come from
And how do you hide it so well?
An actress, for sure
Hating her work
From profane tirades mixing lies with the truth
Delivered loudly, directed at you
Hateful words devoid of the love once expected
Given up, lost to shame, tossed away, another burden
For your bent back
Heavy weights carried with the remnants of dignity that remain
You say you can handle it, you can handle it all
An actress for sure
Hating her work
From where did this black cloud come?
Descending, tainting, clinging, seeping
Breathing
From the force of clenched fists
The changes wrought by violence
A thousand times the ringing sound
A thousand times you kiss the ground
Convinced, almost, that the blows are deserved
The bruises spread, the blackened eyes
Explained away with blatant lies
An actress for sure
Hating her work
From where did this gray cloud come?
How do you hide it so well?
From the hardness of men possessed by lust
Their ******* brains half-full of fantasy
Their money as good as anyone's
Eyes drinking in your mirror's reflection, unfeeling by necessity
Imprisoned forever, trapped in a computer file
Twenty minutes you will never get back, how many more
Given away for an excuse, forfeited for an excuse:
An actress for sure
Hating her work
From where did this gray cloud come?
From where did this dark cloud come?
From where did this black cloud come?
Can it get any darker?
How will Light find you?
A white-robed Deity
Or the barrel of a gun?
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 8:13 AM UTC
Spryly aim your pointed arrow
Draw forth vaulted courage
Call to the depths of your medal
Bend intent at its course and surge
And fire the truest
Most molten affect.
Promptly shape the tensing sinews
Of your malcontent
Harness your tirades
Beckon they be throat-stead rent
And spit a righteous
Incendiary word.
Nimbly wear the Fool’s hat
With a brackish pride
Wag a wanton finger
At the reign of compromise
And singe the cowards
For their hesitance.
Quickly give your last
Before the thought of lapse
Push the outer limits
Of every giving synapse
And save nothing
For the faintest spark of excess.
And if these processes
Seem weirdly foreign
Or misfit within
The best of commonplace
There is a name
For this noble haste
Good Speed.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
I met two strangers on the internet, it was a casual encounter.
One threw tirades of capital letters that punctured my screen,
ricocheted off my eyes,
and bounced back through to the second.
One saw the other as "illiturate", which he had no shame admitting.
The other fired back a passionate counter-argument.
So zealous he was in asserting his qualifications,
he didn't even stop for breath. Or to punctuate.
I find it rather prickling that one who could afford a laptop
won't purchase a dictionary instead.
The duel pressed on, 2 a.m.
****** words and harsh assumptions.
One's heart sank, the other's I.Q. paralleled.
We build these walls up so high between us,
and pretend we can't hear the neighbors
who have built their walls pressed against ours.
This is a problem, oh we have so many of those.
Let's make one more and build them up higher
in hopes that the overbearing altitude caves in on us...
I know that my problem is much more dismal than yours--
Just look at how small the opening to my cell is!
The sky looks gray from down here.
We all imprison ourselves into our own self-pitying ignorance
and call it shelter.
We are so unique and different and beautiful
because we are humans.
Humans who know ugly words, and do ugly things
when our originality is challenged.
And even when it's not challenged
because no one dares to admit
that we all plug into the same electrical grid.
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
You were supposed to protect me
Your little girl
Your little angel
Your only child
You might've loved me
At one time
I think you ended up resenting me
But that's fine
Subjected to your selfish tirades
Put through your gruesome facades
Held up on a pedestal
Only to be pushed down
Your once endearing smile
Now causes me to frown
Everytime the bottle went up
My heart sank down
I begged you
I pleaded you
You weren't there
Not even when I needed you
Sure, you were physically there
But mentally, you were so unaware
Or maybe you were
And just didn't care
You got in your car
Went out for smokes
You were hazy
And at this point, I went crazy
Who were you to risk a life?
Not your own
But maybe somebody's wife?
Somebody's husband?
Somebody's kid?
You don't even care about your own
And I don't think you ever did
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Another one of his possessive tirades.
His distrust for me displayed.
Revolting words bypass the lock on the door,
Where I lay sobbing on the bathroom floor.
Murmuring that emotional offenses are a form of abuse.
Pleading with him to let me cut him loose.
Exhausted with empty promises of change.
His actions have me seeking to estrange.
He'll call me and stalk me and beg me to forgive.
It's too late, these nights I never want to relive.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
the isle is surrounded,
one if by day, and
too by night,
a thickening paste
of fog, condensed humidity,
and the mind smiles that
interloper explorers would sail
past by us, unawares,
for the waters are merely a
dirtier shade of green grey,
a "path" to follow and we
would be spared the noisy
pollution of politics and
and injections of identity
that divide, the tirades of
the overly righteous chest
beaters, who never question
their certainty, their compasses
always broken pointing their
"only one way"
sail on, sail past. this piece of
quiet tranquility, a place that
has just one of everything, a
sufficiency, a rejection of excess,
and the only melancholy is
the finality of passing of
the day lillies,
b u t,
the multi-colored irises, the
flowering of azaleas, rhododendrons, and the brevity
of the cheery cherry blossoms
of those;
secure, safe we are, assured that
their peaceful return is guaranteed
by the firmament and its secrets,
that, along with the overwhelming
greenery of this spot, for the
pleasuring enjoyment of all,
even the fog's quietude,
its surround sounds silences the anxious rapid heart beating,
slowed by one thought only:
Here,
herein is,
here within
lies the truths of
shelter
S. I. 2025
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 10:51 AM UTC
I never suspected my cooking class would trigger my bulimia.
I guess maybe I should have, but it was never at the forefront of my mind when I was signing up for classes in the January of this past year. Currently, I am using that class as a GPA booster because I have an A everybody gets an A. But life still stares me in the face and says **** you" everyday my teacher who is crazy brings up food that sparks a memory. When we learned how to read food labels, I remembered how my parents drilled them into my six year-old brain. If sugar was listed in the first four ingredients, we could not eat the item. When we made Big Macs yes, we actually made them in class I always thought about how my sister and I were never allowed to eat McDonalds unless it was on my mom's schedule, and even then we were forced to get the smallest thing on the menu with the least amount of calories. Should we have objected to any of these strict dietary rules, we would be ridiculed on the spot. My dad made it a point to embarrass us and point out our food flaws in restaurants or, what I found to be even more humiliating, in front of my grandparents. I guess he thought shaming us out of our already established eating habits would work. News flash: it didn't. It won't. All it did was force me into a corner in which an eating disorder was the only option I saw fit. Once he found out? He got angry but did nothing to stop it. And I hadn't thought about my childhood in a good deal of time until this cooking class reminded me of it. Trying to enjoy any food at all now and have eating be a pleasant experience is difficult, but you can be **** sure I'll keep trying, regardless of my father's tirades.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Tumblin’ Bi-latterial bumbkins
Smirk of untrustworthy salutations
Tribes with terabytes of tirades
Engaged in bipartisan relay races
Delay until faces grimace
They really forced our hands on this one
The fat men falling from heights
False winters
And radiation reproduction
Healing blemishes of backwater beasts
Who’ve grown oh so much since
And now silence for ***** sake
Foreign plants and fibers
No more human hands
to tear and manufacture
For cheap and foreign brands,
Granted,
She won’t care we’re gone,
She’s always been
Will be
Back to a blue blip
Little blue dot
On a mat black background
Grant no sound to the camera
Watching while zooming
Slipping and tumbling
Lonely but still working
Sending pitiful postcards
Of galactic grasses
To a dead receptor
Whose data’s been full for eons
Further and
Each day
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 3:26 PM UTC
The lush green leaves
Fall
One
By
One
Burned by the heat of the Sun
Scorched by her tirades
The dewy green turned steam
Replaced by shriveled brown
Devoid of life
Under her heated gaze
The beauty she craved
Nay, nurtured
Destroyed by the fire of who she is
The trunk lies bare
Sticks into earthen crust
Reminders
Of what once was
What was pure
What was perfection
What will never be
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
a voice that won't subside
in the air i can barely breathe
just a pre-disposed slab
in a vacuum
"Bring back my ******* life!"
i scream while sneaking drinks
between tasks and sleep
never know what its like to be
amidst smoke and woodsman's chores
or else im bored into another man's dream
huffing compressed data
in a fugue state waiting for
tirades and the afterglow
please take a seat until then
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC