"traitorous" poems
Hopeless inadequacy
Binds me to the ground.
Cruel roots; anxiety, despair,
Pull at the soles of my feet,
Earthing me, pretending common sense.
The most terrible obstacles
Always lie within,
My greatest enemy;
That traitorous ******* doubt,
And I cannot cast him out.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
how easy it is to write a poem
of unrequited love
an ode to that insatiable hunger
that lives unwelcome in the pit of
my stomach
and slowly eats away at me
gnawing a black hole into that space
an emptiness i couldn't look at
its darkness burned brighter than
the eclipsed sun
who always called with the most
beautiful voice and promised that
if i simply stopped averting my eyes
i would most certainly become one with you
and i forsake my sight
to have your heat
your radiation from all parts of the spectrum
to burn my traitorous eyes right out of their sockets.
how different it is to write
of contentment and perhaps even
a love that i can reach out and touch
without having it sublimate each atom of my being
and reduce me to a radioactive ash
scattered to the wind.
it's a love that i can submerge myself in
it presses in all around and the
mega-Pascals of pressure simply reach
a placid equilibrium with my porous skin
i breathe it in and my lungs
somehow learn to pull the oxygen from
the molecules of liquid desire and vitreous joy
and it fuels my body
infiltrating and inhabiting every cell
feeding my muscles as i
sensuously move my body
fluid as the frigid water around me.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Boredom churns broad-in-brain
competing with petty volumes of alcohol
(white Russian, 1, Magic Hat #9, 1)
for dominance of the summer's eve.
Unsure of which would prove the victor,
past-tense, too, filled with unknowing:
thought- and pedaling-process interrupted
by a traitorous bicycle;
a forward-bent-fork;
a fleeing, unbolted forwardwheel.
Fast-pitch forward,
eyes-wide but dead:
quickfall into void.
Then, wide-eyed horror:
awake again
filled with the horrible pain of life again
fueled, amplified tenfold
through the impact of the sidewalk.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 7:55 AM UTC
(Dad returned this to me tonight, apparently I wrote it in the 90s and he found it and saved it for almost 20 years)
Love hides in the moon,
Where lies and deceit hide too.
But you don't want what you got,
'Cause I'm just an astronaut.
God hides in the manic eyes
Of the maniacs you despise.
And if I'm just a man on the moon
Well then I'm still part of you.
If it will take a tragedy,
For you to see the truth,
Then I just hope I'm still here for you.
All things are fleeting,
And soon I'll be gone.
Gone sailing on ethereal seas
Of forgotten songs.
Joking 'bout my wrongs
With time's tides of traitorous throngs.
Laughing while the ones I love
Chase Maltese Falcons,
And society sinks shaking in withdrawal
From the loss of knowledge
That god is eminent
Throughout the body of existence.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Friday ****** Friday
They cried for you, asked forgiveness
Noises sang, and woke people from their naps
Noises those who belong to explosion
people blinded by religion
But if such existed there would be no poor people asking for pennies
Paris, city of love
For Friday only created silence and pain
This silence that was off by sounds of machine guns
Beirut, a city that bombs interrupted
Baghdad, a city that god corrupted
Traitorous religions.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
She doesn’t let herself think about it anymore. She has a schedule now, a timetable, something that might look like a life if you don’t scratch the surface too hard.
Wake up, call the hospital. Tend her garden, call the hospital. Get driven to the hospital and sit with Dean for hours, hours, hours, go home, cry. Lather, rinse, repeat. The only thing that changes in her life is the sky and the inversion it brings.
She walks on the sky when it clouds, because it’s more solid and sure under her feet than the traitorous ground that swallowed her children whole.
She bargains when it rains, to God or Big Brother or Allah or the deity of the day, because if the Jehovah’s Witnesses are right and their god is a merciful god, He will give her family back.
Once there was an earthquake and she smiled so wide she thought her face would hurt, stood between two rickety, heavy bookcases, prayed that she would die.
The most tragic part of her life is that she doesn’t. She knows this, knows it runs through the marrow of every bone in her body, which has to be why they all ache when they see the sunrise, as if to say another day, another tragedy .
Today she wakes before the sun and hugs her knees to her chest, sits there for a good three hours after he’s called the hospital and heard the same thing as always - the only thing that changes in her life is the sky - “We’re sorry, Mrs. N----, he’s the same.” Every day it’s the same, the same, the same-
-but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Same dingy cab, same crotchety driver, same stale cigarette smell. She lets herself smoke in here because if she’s lucky that’ll **** her first, but she doesn’t fool herself into believing that. Her luck ran out the moment she heard that shot from the door, heard her husband scream and saw all the blood staining the foyer-
But she’s not thinking about that. She’s smoking and she’s listening to the sound of the tires pummeling the ground mercilessly and she’s thinking maybe I should be that ground and she’s not making much sense at all, because she doesn’t sleep anymore and she thinks she might be halfway to insane by now.
They pull up outside the hospital. She’s always surprised her feet haven’t worn a track in the ground yet that leads straight to Dean’s room. She supposes she doesn’t need one.
She pushes the door open and the spark of hope he can never suppress dies with a silent scream, because Dean is the same, her life is the same, she’s the same and the same and the same and she hates it.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
Our footsteps sound on ancient ground
Look around Look around
I see you see me
But I know who you are
You are what no one wants to be
A murderer you are
As am I
We wouldn't dare admit it
But we know it's true
It's undeniable
We **** and eat other ****
We rest
Only later to **** again
Strange is the way of nature's call
Every year it's dead by fall
Strange is the way of murder's call
Until we're satisfied, we'll **** them all
How silly of us murderers
Lock up our own like tiny birds
Not for ****** it is innocent and pure
But for bringing traitorous death to our own so near
And then to waste the meat you've slain,
You refuse to eat it, what a shame
You aren't like us
We proud murderers
You are a killer, a thief
To steal a life, you deserve your grief
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
They will not take my gun.
Get me their guns.
I have a right to my property.
They have a duty to obey us.
It is my responsibility to stand for what I believe in.
It is our responsibility to make them submit.
I hate them.
They will love us.
I say, break the law!
Do they dare go against us?
I petition; I riot; I will not go down without a fight!
We beat; We arrest; We will not lose this fight!
Alas, I am the only one left.
One insubordinate citizen remains.
I fire my gun for my freedom.
I fire my gun for our respect.
My only defense clatters to the ground.
I knock the gun out of his traitorous grip.
I fear what they will do to my family and me.
It is much safer to be feared than loved.
I take one last act to retrieve what is rightfully mine.
I take one last act to retrieve what is lawfully ours.
Then we both reach for the gun.
Then we both reach for the gun.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
I'd watched the hills drink the last colour of light,
All shapes grow bright and wane on the pale air,
Till down the traitorous east there came the night
And swept the circle of my seeing bare;
Its intimate beauty like a wanton's veil
Tore from the void as from an empty face.
I felt at being's rim all being fail,
And my one body pitted against space.
O heart more frightened than a wild bird's wings
Beating at green, now is no fiery mark
Left on the quiet nothingness of things.
Be self no more against the flooding dark;
There thousandwise, sown in that cloudy blot,
Stars that are worlds look out and see you not.
2.7k
Do not utter a syllable
For the reaper lurks at the door
Dim the lights as our eyes are widened
Sit in a desperate, huddled mass
Feel the shivering, helpless creature on the left
Hear my traitorous lungs exhaling, surrendering my position
My heart pounding, screaming at my body
Ordering me to run, to fight, to ****
"Do not go gentle into that good night,"
As Dylan Thomas so elegantly stated
Yet it is not a time for romantic visions of heroism
Beowulf's idealism will not save us here
Sobbing, shivering, ***** stained American Eagle
Sweat drenched Under Amour Tees and hoodies
Feet ironically quivering in red and orange Nike Shocks
A 243 pound lineman blubbering under his breath
He wants his mother, his daddy, his pillow, to go home
Another boy, Darrel, clenches his fists, readies for attack
Cassidy sits silently, emotionless, statuesque, frozen in time
And I . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do?
Do I flinch like Sir Gawain in the face of death?
Or do I . . . . . . What do I do?
God, may I never discover the answer to this evil query
God help us stop the violence consuming innocent children
Render CODE RED obsolete
Yet, CODE RED will parish not
For society feeds on fictional fame
Fifteen minutes that Warhol never could have painted
Now it will be duplicated like so many Campbell's Soup cans
CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED
And . . . What will I do?
What will I do?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
...
['ärbədər']
ar·bi·ter <noun>
*Winter's favorite judge.
Trial is held with the witness.*
⌭ ⌭ ⌭
⍤ Trustworthy ⍤
"Do you know what month it is?"
December growls in seven octaves
"Growls?"
In demon tongue
"About who?"
The she wolf of porcelain night
"The She-wolf...?"
Can't you hear it?
"Hear what?"
The ashes on the walls
"What ashes?"
Sinful choices that need to be cleansed
"Why do they need to be cleansed?"
They drunk my last cup of gold
⍤ Confession ⍤
"What happened to the wolf?"
She chased the seventh house of Cancer
"Cancer?"
The traitorous stars in heaven
"Why?"
She loved him more
"Who?"
The man who could talk the sun into setting
"So she left you?"
Among the valley of mirrors and chess
"Mirrors and chess?"
So I could see I was a pawn
⍤ Treason ⍤
"Did you lover her?"
Down to the wreckage in my bones
"I don't understand."
My soul has fallen ill
"Are you sick?"
Of that blue sink
"What blue sink?"
Look over there, in the corner
"What about it?"
My reflection on blood is quite frightening this evening
⍤ Rectify ⍤
"Do you understand why you're here?"
Father winter needed a suicidal witness
"How did you know?"
The oaken spider prophesized it
"A spider...?"
On the lips of candor and death he spoke
"What was his prophecy?"
Three treasures summon the ill-spirited wolf
"What do you mean?"
One bite from the golden fruit is tragedy
"What tragedy?"
Two drinks from the fountain of youth is treason
"You're not answering me."
Do you know what the third treasure was?
"Enlighten me."
The last breath of the moon
⍤ Final Judgment ⍤
"Do you regret anything?"
The pity screaming from those volcanic eyes
"Pity..."
Her apologies left marks on my willow tree
"Are you ready to accept her punishment for her?"
Yes, I owe her a favor
"Any last words, Alunakira?"
Tell her to never forget
"Forget what?"
How the truth killed me
⌭ ⌭ ⌭
*Execution; Successful.
Mark the wolf's sin as resolved.*
['ärbədər']
ar·bi·ter <noun>
...
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
I only pretend with pretenders
And contend with contenders
I'm only giving to the givers
And forgiving to forgivers
I'm only strange with strangers
And dangerous with dangers
I'm only hateful to the haters
And traitorous to traitors
©
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Sometimes I think
that everyone I trust
just lets me lean against them
so they're in a better position to kick my legs out from under me.
That everyone whom I let learn my weaknesses
will not learn to shield them
as I originally intended, but study
in order to know where to plunge the knife.
Standing under your own power
is so hard
and learning to trust someone
harder
and, in my case, has such a higher chance
of hurting.
I am the man with the broken leg, I
am the man with the traitorous mind, I
am the man who will tear himself down
in absence of someone to do it for him.
Even knowing that, I am standing
on my own feet now. Even knowing
all my own weaknesses, which buttons
to press, I know that trusting
myself, precarious though it is,
is less dangerous
than trusting you.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Beside His still waters,
He leads me I'm told,
From mountains of triumph,
To valleys below.
Yet each river I walk,
Cool waters so sweet,
Flows to an ocean,
Churning and deep.
It's mouth opens wide,
Like a traitorous friend,
Emotions poured out,
It feels like the end.
Fresh swallowed by salty,
As in life so endured;
Anguish consuming,
Joy flooded by tears.
Yet through my distress,
In lesson replete, for
There’s growth at the mingling,
Of bitter and sweet.
His sunshine and rain,
My weakness unseats.
His springtime and harvest,
His plan He completes.
And its here that I realize,
There’s no end to His will;
For whether ocean or river,
They are His waters, still.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
What is it to be righteous? To walk in godliness and purity? To hold the heart of God like the bride?
I'll admit I've felt complacent, disbelief, and traitorous. My own efforts alone have not filled my cup. But as I've fallen, as I've grown in mercy and understanding.
I recognize the shell of this existence. The temporal wasting of my eyes. I feel my lovers heart and still I want more. Not from selfish desire but because I've felt the inner working of the spirit!
The everlasting father. The bridegrooms love. And the Kings will for my life. After that, there is emptiness. A quaint shadow in the smile of beauty and passion.
All this rest inside my brain, my reasoning mind ticks with thoughtfulness. Reaching with my words to the universal will untouchable. Touchable. Touch me.
Show me. Move in me. Speak to me in my heart. God I want to know that love again. The infinity of your fire burning away my sin.
And it's odd, as I pull my bible out of its cold box. Plastered to Fear And loathing in Las Vegas. I guess I am afraid of what I'll learn. I can't keep ignoring this turbulent hope. But the promise that you are always with me. Gives me strength.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
"Whose life is the most meager,
the monkey or the *****
To screech and wind the
same dreadful tune
a mildew forming on your screws
What a way to grind your gears,
counter-happy through the years
Or
To pantaloon a penny nearer,
wearing outfits scavenged
from old graves
To jingle shackles,
worship Cesar's
To have a smile filled with nails,
a heart fashioned of broken stares
"But who has the most meager existence?
The undertaker or the priest?
The coffin or the corpse?"
To love the man who appoints the pain
to the monkey and the box
To praise the God that has made love
a traitorous paradox
To be the one that bears the wounds
of every ****** child, or sage
That is to live the worst of lives,
the bleakest death
That is to understand the blackest hole
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
The chemo makes you tired at first,
So you tend to sleep the day of treatment.
But throughout the week,
The radiation takes its toll.
I watch it slowly unfurl inside of you.
Your joints ache like there are embers between the bones,
And your belly fills with hot, heavy lead,
And your tonsils swell with fluid,
And your ******* traitorous with tumors, are sore and bruised.
This is a pain that eats at you:
Your nerves, your patience, your kind words.
You’re a ***** Vicious and unrepentant. It hurts.
I become petty and spiteful,
Convinced you are determined to make me suffer with you.
You tell me that I don’t care about you anymore.
And I ask you why you can’t appreciate the things I do for you more.
But today,
You showed me how your hair had lost most of its ***** curls,
The follicles soft and preparing for departure,
And you cried because your wig, while pretty, didn’t look like you.
I can only hold your swollen hand
And promise to draw your eyebrows for you.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 1:16 AM UTC
the drunkard crawls from an infinite sea of sadness,
their screams echo
into an enormous black sky,
upon finding their sun
which was once an incessant ***** red,
now a cold mass of midnight blue,
abandoning its worshipper
to revel in darkness,
to freeze from a deathly chill of loneliness,
to melt from the nights' stinging raindrops of reality.
but the drunkards,
and only the drunkards,
are secretly admitted
into the hollow asylum of the traitorous mind,
where some imagined eerie light
bathes the shadows,
where they feel the solitude enveloping their bodies
with an alien warmth,
where the raindrops intoxicate their insides
like thick, sugary syrup;
a place where they
willingly drug themselves
into an ignorant stupor,
painting translucent
dreams of yesterday
upon the undersides of their eyelids,
and seeing them
as the art of the future.
solely possessing the key
to the invisible shackles
that chain them
to equally invisible walls,
they lie back in relief,
upon silken feather dust pillows,
comforted by a styrofoam fortress,
while blissfully wasting away
in their drunken
narcotic haven.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:11 PM UTC
How can we stand
Upon a regulation of fraud
Under the humbug that they've brought?
How can we uphold
Upon a tree of partisan
Onto the product of corruption?
How can you be sure
Upon a protest of desolation
Won't exist at the end of endurance?
How can you be sure
Upon a traitorous of dissatisfied
Won't happen underneath the self-evident of consumption?
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
I try not to let anyone catch me gazing at you
But it’s like gravity has shifted.
I drink in the sight of you,
Any moment when I can look at your face.
When people are around I force myself to ignore you
But that makes you loom larger,
A force so powerful my heart aches,
And it is an agony to turn away, to pretend I don’t feel a pull strong enough to dizzy me-
Just one more second
Just one more glance
As if you’ll be gone if I wait too long.
In those rare moments when I can look at you without fear
I’m surprised you don’t see the tenderness in my face,
A gentleness I am ashamed of
Because it is both
Unmistakable
And traitorous.
The artist in me notices the curve of your jaw
The softness of your mouth
The depth behind your black rimmed eyes.
I could paint until my hands bled and not capture the hypnotic grace you wear like a mantle.
I truly don’t think you have any sense of it.
The other day I walked into the room, glancing into the shadows
And stopped short.
I covered for it quickly, but what halted me wasn’t surprise at seeing someone in the chair there,
It was awe.
You could have stepped out of a painting of the fallen angels and chosen that armchair as your throne.
Soft light poured over the green velvet of the cushions, stopping only to frame your face in shadow.
Your eyes glittered in the dimness
As you glanced up at me,
And I could have left the Garden
Aflame
For your gaze alone.
Just then,
I know I would have.
It is dangerous to look at someone the way
I know
I look at you.
Beauty isn’t the word
You’re something more
Something harsher
Something deeper
Something
More complete,
And when I look at you-
Sidelong
Hoping nobody will notice
Hoping that you won’t find me out
But drawn there by a force I can’t resist-
When I look at you,
I know that Heaven and Hell are only words
But I feel
Both
In my very skin.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 12:21 AM UTC
Believers vs believers
A sign of judgement day
Spilling the blood of mankind
That is what the Lord forbade
The one being slaughtered
Is clueless as to why
A brother is taking his life
And the murderer also does not know the reason for picking up a knife
The state of mankind
Is beyond ******* up to be repaired
Long gone are the times when strangers cared
Every night is in competition with another to becomes the darkest and wildest
Next of kin worried about inheritance
And spouses taking out life insurance claims
The soul is bruised
But on a shell is placed a band aid
Fine wining and dining
Abundance leftovers in the bin
Whilst the neighbour starves
As people frolic in sin
Slaves giving birth to masters
Power in the hands of wrong
And those buried six foot under
Are suddenly the lucky one's
Knowledge decreasing
And ignorance on the rise
We compete in the construction of the tallest building
And mothers abandon their children
Beauty pageants
And *** selling cars
The ship of the world sinks
In broad daylight
Yet we un-fasten our seatbelts
And live by ride or die
Yolo people
Get an intoxicated high on a traitorous life
A year passes like a month
And a month like a week
Nothing remains but a name
Humans who massacred humanity
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
that initial feeling
of water as
it seeps
through the seams
of a boot
finding cracks
in the leather
supposedly
waterproofed
against such leaching
of puddles being
drawn in by
a traitorous sock
willing to sacrifice
the fraternity
of dry comfort
that once it held
flooded with irritation
that will be quenched
only with the offering
of an inane
expletive or two
muttered
under breath
carrying the weight
of a week's worth
of frustrations
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 11:25 AM UTC
I could know any of them
in a dark room, eyes
blindfolded, hands
tied. How, you ask?
One of them smells
like fresh laundry, warm, like hugs, a tinge
of unshed tears, a safe place
to sleep. She smells like home more
than anywhere I've been, when I can catch
her smell. I have breathed this
in for so long, sometimes
it eludes me, the way I
cannot scent myself, for
an abundance of familiarity.
It feel traitorous to try
and describe how
a second smells, that
when she will never
understand, but she
smells like spontaneous gifts
of friendship, and
long sunlit days, she smells
so much of herself
I could never imagine
her differently.
Yet another scents the air
in such a way I
feel my lungs are
bloomings, and yet are somehow
contricting, like I cannot draw
enough of this air,
to breathe so deeply as
I need. He smells
of an accomplishment
hard-won, but worth
every step of the way, though
there is a hidden
bite, a concealed
sharpness, an almost imperceptible tang.
I cannot begin to think
how to explain the intriguing way
another smells, as I cannot quite
place my finger
on it. Much like
its owner, her aroma
is a woven tapestry, and so
we see the complete
product, but never
the individual
threads, a perfect
work of art.
And lastly, the one
who often seems
to have no smell
at all. Spend
some time around him, however,
teach your lungs how
to sense his
presence, and you will notice
he does not smell flashy
or bright, his smell
is constructed
of strong undertones, complimenting
and supporting
everyone else, comforting like
some people's idea
of god.
Sometimes I think
if I could have my own
particular brand of perfume
all the time, I
would be invincible.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
sometimes in the silent dark
when im curled in the corner
is it just
the sound of my traitorous heart
or
are
there
footsteps
outside the
door?
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 11:23 PM UTC
The greatest enemy is the enemy within
The most evil is one most believed as God
The Shepherd sacrificed sheep, and sheep cheered
How can anything not be what it seems
How can I mean other than what I said
How can eyes see soul, when there is none
An apple can be nothing but an apple
A patriot hugs the flag, a christian waves the bible
And the loser, unarmed, accursed, hangs from a tree
In robes of peace, prosperity and power, reigns evil
In dispersion, despair and death, are its enemies
In friends with cleaned feet are traitorous deceivers
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 12:10 AM UTC