"transiently" poems
A phoenix is...
Extended ash, through unending life,
Darkness clouds the happiness of distant days, as eternal life
might be cursed by the flames of hell, yet she is always resurrecting,
Like a spectator, she watches life rise and fall, alike day and night,
Comparable to the smoke which thins it's trail as it travels into the distant sky, yet never truly dying never truly disappearing, living on.
Such is the fate of one who is imperishable, it is alonely existence,
Scared to bond but filled with hope she keeps her head up high,
Because the majestic, azure sky is always a source of hope and bliss,
This makes her fight on, although this battle will never end,
Believing there is a future, in which she someday will rest happily,
Misery and hatred burn up in her flames, which then fall into the darkness of a deep sin which has found its occurance in the long past,
As her body scorches into a blaze of immortality, recurring memories soar, illuminating the land and guiding her through the long night,
Even if all what is lost can be found again, it will perish, transiently.
For now all what is left, is but immortal smoke.
~ Umi
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
Fold you up like unwanted fat
cook you into a rocky stew
placed beneath a mantle of ice
far enough away to be misconstrued
You are old laminated time
And pillowed rock of incomprehensible
Earlier than any lime
Or sand, or sediment, or any kind
You are the grandfather rock
of mine
When I step with my inconsequential feet
living but transiently
I cannot help but be erased
that even you hath but one resting place
All the plants
and sands
and ever since the very first
we have always been ******
to this earth
walking upon your bones
I am sorry we cannot do more
but you know your creator
Speak in the same language
in amalgamators
of which we have forgot
and for that I can say
we are envious; are we naught?
Build softly, and carry us upon your thick
crust like pizza dough, cooking
and you let it sit
Let us win, set us up
drift us apart, leave us crushed
build us,
make us,
break us,
fill us
I want to be restored into your
stony belt and be redeemed
I want to become my own atomic fossil
to connect with the universe through long-lost
plotholes
and once again
hear the story
as a young lad
the way it was meant to be told
I want to eat dinner with my grandfather again
my real sweet stony-chiseled cheeked
father again
to be loved a boy
and a girl
and the whole world
a soul touched back into the deep
left unshackled
by a ***** or a queen
please,
take me back soon
rather than let me turn into
Laurentia
or Baltica
or Gondwana
alack
smacked into new rock to form
Urals
and Tetons
and Moher
back
Carbonate or Silicate,
and the end its the same
It won't be the end
for that fate rearranged
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:08 AM UTC
I feel like I live in an infinite void of nothingness. Between the vast worlds that I remain The Observer to. I’ve been in so many things, but never fully committed, be it by my own volition or external circumstances. Perhaps no one has and the continuity and consistency I seek is all an illusion generated by my limited presence in the spaces I transiently call home in a desperate attempt to belong to things that I feel deep down I simply can’t. Do I know it to be certain, or is it merely faulty—unhealthy—subconscious programming? I wish I knew.
I have so much potential—I sincerely know it; I see it every day. Yet, despite this, I remain a car in fifth gear, wheels spinning in winter’s freezing, putrid slush, and remain stationary as I drain all my energy, rocking back and forth across the slippery driveway.
Like my body and brain—like me—my devices’ batteries seem to drain too quickly; where’d all that time and energy go? Yet, Time seems to firmly drag me along through an eternity, moment to moment, when pain strikes me with its sour, sharp, and nearly all-penetrating hand.
The evening sunlight sure does look pretty out the window and coming in onto the walls, though. That’s something.
A group walks by. By no means a popular group–not that popularity matters much–but they, despite the game of Society stacking most odds against them, have found their people: each other. These geeks that pass by the window are happy despite this, and though I may have traits that set me apart from them, I remain set apart from near everyone else.
I fear, from the deeply-rooted subconscious program from a childhood of my depth and passions never being understood, much cared for, or even acknowledged, that those who are near to me cannot fully see it. I know they love me; no question there despite the doubts creeping in. The programming renders both nearly impossible to feel. Spectacular.
Feb 5, 2025
Feb 5, 2025 at 5:26 PM UTC
i quietly wonder
if i had done anything
wrong to reclaim
another faultful star
as i stare outside the window
cascading past endless stretches
of worn paved-roads
and vast fertile landscapes
and everything looks transiently gargantuan
but i momentarily glance
at the empty bus seat next to me
and i feel rather small again
flimsy music in my ears
speaking of infinite sentiments
and i’m disenchanted again
these mellisonant voices are enough
they have to be enough
to keep my wandering mind
company against the ephemeral madness
i flick my red lighter open
and hold it close—but not too close
to my dying pen; wondering, for
a moment, if the same trick could revive
my spirits like the stuttering ink,
tempted to burn my flesh back to life
but i merely stare into the flame—
flickering unsteady still—and blow it out
so it doesn’t have to be lonely
as my heart is right now
as i travel from small city
to smaller town, i wonder where
all my friends are right now
how they are all doing
what they are doing
and if they’re all having fun
without me.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
You kissed him with my lips,
Those lips I thought were mine,
I felt his breath,
His dew pressed
Upon our mouths for a time,
In your eyes I see the want
For me, for you, for us
Yet what you crave,
I have given,
This harvest has no wine
Your kisses, remain unbound,
Ghosts obscured my view
In our haste we lost ourselves
Thieves together two,
I stole from you as you did from me
Still we remain never complete,
Only us,
Transiently
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
happiness in my life exists transiently.
never have i been able to trust it completely.
on the occasions that things consistently go right,
my stomach drops and my mind keeps me awake at night.
i ponder why i must live in constant fear.
perhaps, it's due to the leaving of people i once held dear.
my hands clasp and try to hold you tight,
but my inner negativity makes this a constant fight.
i pray that one day happiness will be a friend to me.
that i won't fear its leaving and enjoy life peacefully.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
I stood long under stars and trees
clouds transiently swift in winter's eve
memories of yesterday's child, a year to play
a dream, a pond to skate away
Now wintery thoughts are aglow
cool drifts the night through open windows
Owls haunt with delight
they seek to prey,
quick before the light
of sleepy days
I slept and fell deep the well
my soul drinking freely
bathed in sweetest darkness
depth of sorrow wakes me soon
my joy alights this
morning moon
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
time, love, and art--what illusory concepts
undefinable and immutable
we meld, over and over again, the borders of our bodies becoming unclear in defiance of the defined space we transiently occupy. teenage rebellion.
A most primal ritual, mother to a sentiment most sophisticated--
the bites you left on my neck lasted longer than your interest, which faded with the early sun like a dark cliche embedded in my skin.
How curious it is to feel time, evade love, and be art--
how bitter to know the hollowness of each one, a lesson imparted by the weight of their meaninglessness.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
we are
lost
in a world we meant to build
bigger than ourselves.
we are
breathing
ink
but they wouldn't know,
that the ink we bleed
is so much darker than
our sins.
but in this world —
that is not quite round anymore —
we have seen peace in the eyes of
the dead, but i —
i am falling apart
too rigorously
to be defined in words.
we are
still
in the most literal sense.
almost synonymous with
stilted oceans. my heart is a
planet. and my heartbeat
is a jagged meteor
almost singeing
in its warmth.
i am only transiently whole enough so long as i
will myself to hold together
within the chains.
my hands are a
constellation
of your heart;
it is not quite as big as a planet,
but fairly so.
fifteen years
and you crash,
desperate and drenching in January rain
and as old as 1627.
but my world is not encapsulated
in 146 square feet of space.
i am tired
in my bones,
in my skin,
in my soul,
in this body
that seems too limiting.
i am so tired
that you would not
be able to recognize me
anymore,
i have become so different
but so have you.
there is a hard way of learning
how to stitch flesh without pain,
but i — i exist on the underside
of the ocean's surface.
it feels like my home.
and then the sky falls
into my home,
collapses like it had been standing
for far too long.
*
sway ever-so-slightly to the left
only then could you feel the sunlight,
pleasant in its glow of starbursts
littering the sky with scattering silhouettes
of shadows pressed flat,
and shoved mercilessly into the closets
of sleeping children; their hair made of
flakes,
their hands reaching out innocently
to touch my face.
a giggle on your left,
of the child who has managed to break
through your frigidly cold soul.
*
stay behind the fault line,
do not step toward me
if you don't want to drown.
i am a writer, you see,
endlessly delirious
in my never-ending dolor.
a state of pretenses,
where everything exists behind lies.
fall into the dead end instead,
i —
— i —
i am not meant to be whole, i swear i
— i never existed as a whole, never
once in my seventeen years.
and there is so much more than
falling in love,
in this world full of wonders
where you wouldn't know
about how i'm
far more real
than you can ever be.
simply because i know who i am
and you, friend,
you are trying to find your reflection
in someone else.
but haven't you learned
that you are different?
(that i am too?)
and that we belong
in the void?
that we are
meant
to be the void?
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC
In a previous life
the one leased before this
I was burned
in the Cocoanut fire.
To the nines
in a silky red-ruby dress
awaiting
revelry in the Grove
flirting the
crowds until
intimacy acquired
escaped into the
Melody Lounge.
That precycled scene
one autumn night
sleeps dormant
this life
unless
kindled by the smell
of acrid sulfer-ized air
or the sight of pitch
unexpected.
Then to re-live
transiently re-feel
flame poured fronds
from Melody's ceiling
char blacking my arm
blister gaped
as a thousand
racking wails
torment me.
Too late to flee
stone hypnotized watching
the creeping black
consume my extremities
I stared immobile
immolation complete.
Burned in the Cocoanut fire.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
disclaimer:
I’m thinking about the hourglass in your mouth.
this is what is left behind
when the dust has settled.
please find attached:-
my heart.
my apoplexy, this, your words bleeding into me
settling, stagnant
clotting around the end of us -
salvaging the wound.
to have something, but not be able to truly hold it,
liquid, seeping through your fingers -
to see it pooled on the floor, the remnants of something you had
so transiently your fingers don’t even feel wet with it,
[not at all]
not when you’d rather be immersed.
you see, I don’t like to be in my body because it only serves to
remind me where your hands once were.
when all you want is what you had,
what is left behind in your palms?
whispers of the last time they were held,
and a kind of vacancy you don’t want to fill.
[close your eyes, breathe,
count how long it takes to fall apart]
interesting
to think of the systemic effects of heartbreak.
interesting
how you can pull one heart string and I’ll unravel.
I know I’ve been a shadow of myself lately;
it’s called “going through the motions”,
apologies.
safe as in a place,
safe as in your arms,
safe as in has-been once-was
and never again.
what happens when the goods commodify themselves?
I have never missed someone like I miss you,
have missed you since the day of my exile from your heart
a concept: existence as a kind of festering,
as though I’m in the last place I saw you like a finger probing the wound,
septic and exactly the wrong kind of comfort:
there is no unloving.
it comes in waves - the weight and salt of it
makes my back ache and my eyes sting.
you see, I’ve never been vulnerable like this before, and I’m wondering if
there’s a limit as to how broken a person can be,
the same way you can only fold a piece of A4 paper in half seven times?
I wanted to be unforgettable
and now I’m just trying to Be,
hoping that somewhere I linger
eat my feelings,
stick pencils down my throat
***** poetry.
if my heart is on my sleeve and my sadness upon my eyelids;
then my belly is a processor,
and all it spits out is simply
a checklist
of all the things we could have been
- our morphogenesis, our eulogy.
please. thank you.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
My dad loves me most when he's drinking
he cares about me transiently
so maybe thats why I
look for gyspy love
maybe I like the surprise of
not knowing if you'll love me tomorrow
or maybe it's just what
I deserve
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC