"tolerable" poems
Intolerant to Tolerance
(Poem by Serenus)
They tolerate your gayness
You should be so glad
That they’re not indifferent to your difference
They’re not the one’s calling you F*g
They tolerate your blackness
Racism…
They’re much bigger
In their minds
They’re colorblind
They’ve never uttered
The word N*gger
They tolerate your religion
Muslims,
Jews,
And Christians
Believe what you want to believe
They tolerate your decision
They tolerate your opinion
They tolerate your facts
They tolerate your voice
They even let you talk back
They can stomach you as a person
Isn’t that honorable?
Doesn’t it feel great…
To be so tolerable?
We all need to pull together
And strive to be prosperous
It’s time to move forward
And be intolerant to tolerance.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
the cool wind in my hair
as you and I glide across
the cement jungle.
You make my life tolerable
in this crazy urban landscape,
my trusty metal steed that
helps me duck and weave in
stand still traffic of the Nation's capital.
nothing like flying through the city on you, my bicycle,
on this beautiful spring day. I know you can't speak,
but if you could, you would also say "wheeeeee" with glee.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
My eyes flipped through the list of names
And I saw your's, your picture surfacing in my memory
But my heart did not skip a beat
My cheeks did not brighten with blush
At a thought that I did not remember.
I did not close my eyes and see that room of comfort
Your hand was not on my shoulder
Your face was not mere centimeters from mine
Your existence did not overwhelm me.
I saw your name on that list of long night conversations
But I did not want to speak
I did not even want to look.
Have you been replaced? It is possible.
But are you replaceable? Impossible.
your name is
always before my eyes
always on my lips
always in my mind
but never in my hand.
Never next to mine.
Never next to me.
No matter how many times I
See your name
or write it down
or sing it out loud
or scream it with pleasure
It will never be my name,
And I will never be yours.
Understanding will never be
as comfortable as your bed,
but it will make seeing your name tolerable.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
In the sole purpose of love.
I confused a strawberry for that of a heart.
I didn't at all feel ashamed. Sharing a divine pleasure.
I allowed myself to confess everything my heart felt with this strawberry.
A fruit practical. Knowing all of life's mystery.
Plump in the way it stared.
An everyday conversation turned into something precious.
My hand becoming like a stem.
The strawberry now confusing me for one of it's own.
Sharing the same subtle silence.
Relaxed in the freedom that mistakes can and will occur but something
extraordinary can happen.
Introducing ourselves to a different us.
More tolerable.
Enjoying the gift of each others company.
Sincere in a moment of sensitivity.
Both of our cheeks blushed in red.
Sharing a deep thought that traveled it's way into purpose.
A seed ripe in the way it gushed into deep infatuation.
A mouth in need, the will to quench arising urge.
Communication in purest form.
The vine that ensues nourishment from soil colored hands.
Cleansed in warmth, devoured whole
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
What is to come?
From a world where our children are given guns to play with,
It’s not the squirting of water,or release of plastic bullets, it’s the message we shoot into their heads .
Triggering violence from adolescence.
Planting seeds of hate,
And watering them with spilled blood .
Waiting for the fruit to ripen, but it never does,
Now we have the taste of bitterness lingering on our mouths.
That bitterness stays on our tongues ,
So that when we speak, that’s all that comes out.
You see Somehow the fruit is never as sweet as when it’s forbidden.
Sugared by sin,
Borrowed from thy neighbor, because when it’s sin there’s always enough to go around.
What is to come?
From a world where we are told to express ourselves , but within the guidelines.
Told that the world is your canvas , but restricted to only the color white.
It isn’t as pure as it seems.
Underneath the white paint lies splashes of read , gushing from a black body.
There is no canvas, all we are given is a painted picture, of what perfect looks like.
So that we Erase anything that doesn’t fit the image.
The slightest difference is reason for war.
Be it the quantity of melanin
Be it religion
Be it Gender.
What is to come?
Of a world that is only tolerable through the shade of intoxication .
Where pills serve as capsules of happiness
We are our biggest enemy,
Our pain is self inflected.
If this is what it is ,to be human
What is the cure?
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
This bakery sounds like couples cooing at each other from opposite ends of the booth
Giggling like no one else sees they're playing footsies under the table
And coffee they've let go cold because no one orders hot, black coffee at five pm in this Arizona heat.
It sounds like cookies taunting the diabetic who really did come in for the salads
And the free wifi, of course.
It sounds disgustingly like the same song I've played on repeat for the past three hours
Contemplating what I want to write about tonight.
But not really contemplating
More like wishing that on the walk to this bakery that's stuck on the corner of a straight road
I'd thrown you to the ground and punched you in the face
For all the wrongs you've done and all the wrongs you're going to do.
But your apathy threw me off, and I kept walking in silence.
Wishing I could have the beach's sands, the mountain's bending rivers,
And that I could run away from here.
This bakery sounds like noise, and sometimes noise is tolerable.
At least noise is better than apathy.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
Some people have faith…
In a God that they can’t see.
They pray and beckon to this being.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people seek out love…
They say it’s all they need.
A notion that can’t be defined.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people seek the truth.
They claim it will set them free.
All too often it brings only pain.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people claim to care.
And they do so unconditionally.
Expecting absolutely nothing in return.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people refute predestination.
Yet believe in destiny.
Fate and free will intertwined.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people outstretch their hands.
When the world leaves them to bleed.
Giving to a world that doesn’t care.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people follow only logic.
Decisions made to a tolerable degree.
Yet logic turns our hearts so cold.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people look for life’s purpose.
Proposing doctrines and various decrees.
That purpose varies from one to the next.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
The world is full of confounds and query.
And in that, I rarely find the answers I seek.
But still, I wonder every day.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Perhaps we need not find an answer.
Perhaps, by nature, we are curious beings.
We need faith, wisdom, truth, and love.
At least, that much, I can see.
But I invite you to justify this world.
Elaborate on the answers I need.
Or maybe life just doesn’t make sense.
I invite you to enlighten me.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
Socks that hide secrets
Socks that hide shame
Socks that contain
the shadows of pain
They once pranced in the dryer
They now slump in the drawer
They send little sock homing signals galore
Fermenting the anguish
Makes the smell much more tolerable
It was all part of the ineffable plan
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
my future partner,
Hi, I’m anna. I guess we’re co-writing this chapter of our lives together. I’m sure it’ll be epic. It takes a while for me to viscerally latch onto another being, so congrats to you for stealing my heart
because if I’m with you, that probably means I really love you.
I like sushi a lot, empty bookstores, and tea sipping sessions with my cat, xiaoxiao, who you will probably hear me talk about twenty-four seven. I hope you’re a cat person.
Within the realm of the arts, I like to write poetry and play piano. But my secret hobby is photography. It’s the best way to know someone without really knowing them. And if you hurt me, I’ll probably create an entire musical composition or a playlist of poetry about it. But I’ll forgive you instantly.
I might make mistakes, too. For instance, I’m horrible with directions, remembering events, deadlines, or anything unrelated to pedantic learning. My erratic and changeable moods can be quite the predicament as well, but I promise to be as tolerable as I can be through my storms.
I’m a biomedical science major with a minor in neuroscience. Assimilating an array of medical innovations, education, and terminology is, personally, my zenith of academic interest. I have a love and longing to help others. But sometimes, moving towards this ultimate vocation is strenuous and I do hope you understand how much medicine means to me. This means late night MCAT study sessions, mountains of neuroscience books, stacks of terminology notecards, homework, and paramounts of stress.
But I want to work on that. I promise that whatever I love, I love to a seemingly boundless depth- “from the tip of my apex and beyond,” if you’re into medical puns. I promise I’ll take you out to dinner, plan cute dates, and spend as much quality time with you as I can. I promise, we’ll travel to so many places, eat all the food we can in all the countries we visit, dive in every ocean we can find, and fly over every country we can point to on a map.
Most importantly, I promise to give you reasons to continue the chapters in your book. Because I struggle with that too.
Whether it be in a month, a year, a decade, or a lifetime...
I promise to love you, see you soon
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
.
The more I think, and reflect about life, the more it strikes how little we need to survive.
.
But then the question of my life itself baffles me still.
In the name of
Cups and Wands
and Swords and Pentacles.
How does one figure out
how one wants to ease into the world—
in what manner
what face
what costume
what identity
shall we assume
in this theatrical muse of mass-scale rehabilitation.
Searching,
for the right attire
in a tolerable personality.
To eventualize, to officiate, to become
A masterpiece—
by the hands of time
and the wheels of fortune.
So that we may be made worthy
Maybe, if you were dealt with luck.
Fortune's Fool—
How do we know which
is the correct way to go
sᴉ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝɹɹoɔ ʎɐʍ oʇ oɓ·
in hindsight.
To hunt for a halo in the robes of glee
while you dwindle in time
Abject, at sea.
Cut the chase.
Bleed. Heal.
Await the haemorhage and its evanescence.
And when you approach the Great Finale,
Be free.
.
At any moment of time, we have one foot in the abyss while the other lapses into ecstasy.
.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
I liked quirky women
It was easier to breathe around them
Their irregularities gave me something to watch, whether it was entertaining or simply odd
The ones that fully embraced that quality were the most radiant
Looking at the them was almost the same as looking into the sun
They gave me insight as to what I was lacking
Embracing their warmth gave me balance
I gladly take the backseat to them to this day
My place is observing from the side
I like for my vanity to be silent
The only issue with them—women in general—is that they have a need for constant communication and affirmation and affection
In the beginning, it’s more tolerable because everything is new and exciting
Then comes the inevitable: I get tired
Their quirks have become predictable, and their conversations dull
One week I’m deeply infatuated, then after the experiment becomes a process, the next couple weeks drag by with each day seeming to last years
That’s when I withdraw
Phasing out of a fifty year long commitment of love and charity, like the coward I am, then drifting back to the safety of solitude until the cycle repeats itself
I’m a dog
I’m a loner
One of these days I’ll have to pick one
But it won’t be today, and certainly not tomorrow
Sometime.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
We drink to make each other more tolerable.
Whiskey washes over the painful memories of broken trust and promises.
I don’t remember the last time we didn’t fight.
It’s like I love you too much to care anymore.
I’d give you the world if I could,
but that’s easier said than done.
You don’t want me to be so kind to you;
and that’s something I’ll never understand.
Don’t forget who I was before you tore me apart.
I was a pieced together puzzle;
until deconstruction became your hobby.
You became my demise.
Tears trickled down my wrinkled shirt the day you left.
In our life wine rhymed with love
and water tasted like sacrifice.
There are only so many wounds liquor can heal.
New stains painted my shirts,
not tears or wine.
Red cuffs covered up memories of you.
Blood washed down the drain just before you came back.
Now it’s too late to save us.
Maybe we were doomed from the start.
But I’ll refuse to believe we weren’t perfect for each other.
Not until God tells me otherwise.
I suppose I’ll see him soon and ask for His opinion.
Your embrace has never felt more soothing
as my vision blurs to black.
You whisper sweet thoughts you should’ve said before.
We drank to make each other more tolerable.
I couldn’t think of someone I’d rather tolerate.
When I embark from dark to light I’ll remember you.
I love you too much to care anymore.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Heavy and laboured the air permeates within
Coursing through the maze of tunnels.
Undeterred of where stone ends and rock would begin
Survival that drives to fill its channels.
Slow rumble that ignites the need to beat
Awaken functions both lacklustre and listless
The engine behind these dread ridden feet
Drag its load through mundane tasks emotionless.
At the core there resides the truest of stones
A jewel of sheer rarity that inspires wonder
Breathes life selflessly into dead broken bones
It throbs and ebbs with silent subtle power.
Claimed it and perched it deep on a pedestal
Protected it like it's the one and only source
It's what that keeps us sane and tolerable
It's what that pulls us through our course.
Whenever I think of if this gem would last
This monolith of a heart that I prop up *****
Stands steadfast hopeful of the light it'd cast
We have learnt so much of it to know that it is perfect.
You are perfect...
.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
a tornado from the blue
of unleashed amatory instincts,
with a Kamasutra mind
in full play, from the center,
more inventive than the original;
your sudden appearance
in my orbit, after a while,
for this intervention extraordinary
had splendid consequences.
hell, one never could have asked for more!
Making me passionate
beyond my tolerable limits
with violence fashioned as love bites,
wild play of nails on skin expanses,
and other salacious techniques
were as ever, your optionals--
worked on me like never before
I reinvented myself
as a natural in the art of
complete merger-
the yoga of mind and body
the perfected art of Eros,
exactly the way you envisaged
the waves still madly erupt
for you to take care,
which ever way you like.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC
I feel... Anger
Unbridled rage, undying fury, like a wildfire through Rome
I bring hell to those who have wronged me, sorrow to those who haven't, and death to all who oppose me
Yet, I also feel love
And pain
And excitement
But it always comes back to anger
Those I love leave, those who love me die, and all I love must end
The pain is always inflicted, rarely tolerable.... And rage always follows
Excited for a new adventure, a new romance, a new friend, a new experience
Yet it was all a lie
The adventure led to pain, the partner a liar, the friend a foe, the experience flawed
So all I have is anger
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
Alone:
It began when she moved to a small town. She was not the town's normal girl. She was different. Her skin tone, her voice, her eyes. She played suddenly, walked differently. She could and would never fit in.
She went to the school where she was made fun of. It was tolerable at first when she was younger. Buy as she got older it got worse. The one person who would stand up for her left. He left her to the torments and the teasing.
Soon all they did was relentlessly make fun of her. Push her buttons. They could not see what they were doing to her. They were destroying her. Her love for school turned dread. She would have to face their voices as they called out hatred, mock and scorn. She would dread seeing or talking to them.
The little things grew as she kept them to herself. They started small, inconspicuous. Then the grew. They grew bigger and bigger. Deeper and deeper till they became the center of her universe.
She would put on a fake smile everyday the real on had been gone for some time. Her love of school had faded some time ago, but now her love of life was like the faint flickering of a dying candle. She would talk to no one unless talked to. She ignored their looks and comments, but their whispers were heard like shouts to her.
Finally one day they pushed her over the edge. Three simple words. Three words that don't mean much to anyone else but to her, those where the words that finally broke her.
She went home that night knowing it would be her last. She was done with life. She had played their game and she was tired now. She was tired and she wanted out. She left no expiation. Just a short note saying that she was sorry.
A single gun shot rang out into the quiet night. Her patents came home later that night calling to her. She gave no answer because she was gone. Rushing upstairs her parents found her body.
Her mother collapsed. Her father broke. Her family that loved her mourned for her. Those who taunted her and teased her finally realized their wrong but it was to late. The damage was done. She was gone.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
The canvas of my memories,
Destroyed by my tears,
Was the last remaining torture tool
Of my roughly ravaged years.
I've been given a second chance.
Another shot at remourse.
A chance to get my life
Set on a tolerable course.
With a new pure white canvas,
Unscathed by my past,
I can go on living without
Regrets that will last.
The memories of my pain are long
Since behind me.
I have a whole new world
I have the chance to see.
Seeing through these untainted eyes,
I can see through everyone's hateful lies.
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 12:52 PM UTC
They are
monotony.
Pulchritudinous
aesthetics,
Alleviation
to
seclusion.
Do you not feel the heat – my wrist on yours
burn tales more rich than ours on nights more dark
than souls too tense to feel the eyes of God
draw shame on backs of necks so close?
Or is it
just me?
Conjuring
fraudulence
Accrediting
ludicrous
buoyancy
I know its there I know the life that flows
through limbs of mine can move through cloth to touch
the skin of yours I hear your eyes I see your voice
I breath you in why else are we so close?
And
innocent
And
serene
And
happy
And
secluded.
How can you sit not feel those things I feel
not think those thoughts I think not see your wrist
sink in to flesh as soft and pink as lips
I long to taste? We are al-ways al-ways
al-ways al-ways al-ways al-ways
so close...
They are
tolerable
Doused
ardor
maybe.
Benumbed
incandescence
maybe.
But still
They are
here.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
My heart bursts into flames of desire
I am the kindling, your smile the lighter
A tolerable pain, a welcome hurt,
Both one I enjoy and one I deserve
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
The men shout at me as they drive by
****** walk like a man!”
They hoot, shout, and laugh
As sunlight blinds their white-trash getaway.
I look around and think
How ridiculous to be unable to walk
How insane for me to think that these legs
Move on their own.
How silly for me, the queen that I am,
To think that my kingdom was
Any place I was welcome.
To be queer and visible
Is to challenge
The stained muscle shirts
“wife beaters,” strung across
Tattooed skin and handlebar
Mustaches of the “real men”
Whose siren calls
Police my step.
Most men hate us
The Children of Naomi Campbell
Men, YES MEN, too unafraid
To straighten our walk
Loosen our pant legs
And be invisible.
To be properly gay
Acceptably gay, to be
Tolerable is to be invisible
To hide, to be “real man”
My manhood is ghostly
Terrifying even
My walk so dangerous that
It is unsafe to even drive by
My community is still
Dangerous, unreal
Waiting for the next truck to drive by
To beat me, tie me to a fence and leave me
Like Matthew Shepard
A ghost on a fencepole
Unwanted, dangerous,
My people are a threat
Legs too long threatening the ability of
“real men” to have simple desires
They will do whatever it takes
To keep it easy.
Walk like a man, they yelled.
I yell back the names of my family:
Tiffany Edwards,
Zoraida Reyes, Kandy Hall
Yaz’min Shancez
Bodies that didn’t walk the right way
These ghosts were once threatening too.
Simply existing means threatening
"real men" and their women
Swinging my hips is literally deadly
To be flirtatious is to be threatening
To invite violence, attention
To get what I want, to be made a man
Real man, I am not real
As if my only job is to
Show others how to walk,
As if the rest of me
Is simply fake, fantasy, irrelevant
See how easily queer people
Are watered down to something unidimensional,
Something that is only a fragment of
“real” people – we are ghosts
Moving among you
Threatening, ******
Never just going to work
But always somehow
threatening, challenging
And forcing fantasies onto the world
Why do we always challenge
What is real? What is normal?
Why can’t a man strut? Why isn’t manhood
Something other than what swings with my
Legs?
Real. Ghostly. Fake. Invisible. Dangerous.
What I hear is *powerful, noted, interesting,
….maybe even desirable.* (GASP!)
When I walk now, I walk with an army of ghosts
Led by the fallen, queens, and divas
who threatened the men of the past.
I live their lessons and proudly
swish my hips in honor of my adopted
****** ancestors.
We Sashay however we want
Because we've realized that
a "real" men is always
Just a step away.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
The delicacy of the mind.
Strong impressions.
Vivid images.
Of past regressions.
Benevolent enemies,
Are attentively concluded.
Amidst their repugnance.
Intellect becomes secluded.
Paths of judgement.
Easily twist to falter.
Register atonement.
Evils become softer.
Conveyed assurance,
False sense of civility.
Sober thoughts, drunken words.
Lead to tolerable tranquility.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
I am Human.
My body sprawled out.
I am Human.
Close my eyes.
I am Human.
Feel each drop fall along curves.
I am Human.
Open my lids.
I am Human.
Inhale the condensation.
I am Human.
Lungs struggle; it's tolerable.
I am Human.
Watch the droplets on the curtain.
I am Human.
Colors change from blue to green.
I am Human.
Arms push up.
I am Human.
Legs stretch out.
I am Human.
Feet bend and toes curl.
I am Human.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
No more neglected satisfaction.
No more defeated temptation.
Only solitude glory of a kind mans creations.
Reverse mankind and behold he will stand, with all our beligerence in his unholy hands.
He has no god, no religion born into.
He has theories of his own, which he follows shoes or no shoes.
Planets recycle, the life spectrum a circle.
Born lived and died again, sending none to no such heaven nor hell.
What is practicle, and unethical, makes reality tolerable.
Spectaular he sees eyes like his, fainted colors blindly holding up.
Through with his spectrum, recyling his plans, the woman of desired lust, completes his inner man.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC
Have you ever been
pulled over by the culture
police?
I know this culture cop
who loves pulling people
over for self-expression.
He'll wait till you break
into color, and cut you
off at your most emphatic.
He'll **** burp, scoff--
master craft a discombobulating
smack to your mouth.
He thinks most expression pins
you down to obviousness.
So by definition a lack of expression,
or stifled expression, means
you're not being obvious.
Therefore tolerable, but being obvious, or not being obvious is still
being, trying--expressly.
Watchdog of his own passive-agression, his cagey brooding activated by voices in excitation
of uniqueness.
He's living hard between the lines,
unable to read so to speak, as sing!
My mouthy mute carbon copy
of repression, I'm so sorry--truly.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 10:42 AM UTC
Whisper me sweet nothings of time melting away these regrets
Or how time itself melted away all these months and years apart
Assure me that the years have dulled these memories, diluted their potency
Lie to me and tell me these memories have faded or that time heals all
Time, the biggest liar of all,
Taking memories and simply aging them in oak barrels to be sampled like a fine whiskey with a cigar or a side of regret
Time doesn't heal a **** thing,
It makes tragedy tolerable,
Like soldiers desensitized to the smell of death and rot
Time can't heal a story whose happy ending can never be written as intended,
It can only lend itself so that the story may be rewritten.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC