"tumulting" poems - Hello Poetry

With my growth I leave behind a shell. A casing of the world I used to thrive in. The past is no longer inhabitable, but still usable. I use my memories as a flotation device in the abyss that is recurring. I rise above my past and transcend into the new crevice that is my present. I cannot change the past as it is set in bone. But I can make my future fit me. I can form my own protection layer by layer until all my supplies of DNA paper Mache will no longer stick. Their glue dried up, exhausted by the length of time I've spent on earth, oppressed by the pressure of the tumulting, black sea. Waves may break on me. My knowledge of living my shield against depression, anxiety. My bone hard shield saves me. I am the chambered nautilus. I am awake. But dream I will of times beyond 36. What lies ahead may only hurt me on the edge because to the core my skeleton is steady. Its weight growing heavy Can be lifted with my spirits as if before a feast. And dragged down to the ocean floor when realized I'm a beast. No princess in her castle, nor farm boy in his barn Unique to who I am, and in my niche I fit. I may blow up. And fall down. And spurt salty tears. You'd never know, my loves, my dreams, my fears. Upon first glance I am the epitome of my life. Upon second, as confusing. Upon third, as painful and funny. And as irrelevant to others as I am important to myself. Another rock in the ocean. Another pebble. Another pearl. Not found Not searched for Not hidden.

0

Aug 19, 2015

Aug 19, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC

laurengmichaud

My life as a chambered Nautilus

With my growth I leave behind a shell. A casing of the world I used to thrive in. The past is no longer inhabitable, but still usable. I use my memories as a flotation device in the abyss that is recurring. I rise above my past and transcend into the new crevice that is my present. I cannot change the past as it is set in bone. But I can make my future fit me. I can form my own protection layer by layer until all my supplies of DNA paper Mache will no longer stick. Their glue dried up, exhausted by the length of time I've spent on earth, oppressed by the pressure of the tumulting, black sea. Waves may break on me. My knowledge of living my shield against depression, anxiety. My bone hard shield saves me. I am the chambered nautilus. I am awake. But dream I will of times beyond 36. What lies ahead may only hurt me on the edge because to the core my skeleton is steady. Its weight growing heavy Can be lifted with my spirits as if before a feast. And dragged down to the ocean floor when realized I'm a beast. No princess in her castle, nor farm boy in his barn Unique to who I am, and in my niche I fit. I may blow up. And fall down. And spurt salty tears. You'd never know, my loves, my dreams, my fears. Upon first glance I am the epitome of my life. Upon second, as confusing. Upon third, as painful and funny. And as irrelevant to others as I am important to myself. Another rock in the ocean. Another pebble. Another pearl. Not found Not searched for Not hidden.

34

Home is a bus station A byway between, A place to rest my head Before the next departure. I’ve seen rain through the windows, I’ve sat through cool midnights. The station fills and empties, People with their luggage arrive And wait for the next bus out, Standing in a line at the door. Home is the next station, The nearest side of the road With a view of the stars. It’s an x on the map, A hazy line connecting the dots Between me and you. My ticket is stamped My bag tightly packed, And with time I’ve come to know That where I’m truly at, A map can never show. Life is a bus station, With its comings and goings Its periods of waiting and of rushing. Charon, the perpetually impatient, Drives his bus into the loading bay And checks tickets at the folding doors. With teared eyes I wave, At the back of a bus as it drives Into the dreary autumn sun set, Down the interstate and out of the city. Life is a bus station, The place between Where the crooked lights are on Through the windows they shine a lighthouse’s winking eye to a captain Trapped in the tumulting waves Of a wrecking sea storm. The bus honks at it leaves, And we wave to the driver Who bravely heads down the road That we all walk down in the end

0

Oct 19, 2018

Oct 19, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC

nasa-nick

Halfway House

Home is a bus station A byway between, A place to rest my head Before the next departure. I’ve seen rain through the windows, I’ve sat through cool midnights. The station fills and empties, People with their luggage arrive And wait for the next bus out, Standing in a line at the door. Home is the next station, The nearest side of the road With a view of the stars. It’s an x on the map, A hazy line connecting the dots Between me and you. My ticket is stamped My bag tightly packed, And with time I’ve come to know That where I’m truly at, A map can never show. Life is a bus station, With its comings and goings Its periods of waiting and of rushing. Charon, the perpetually impatient, Drives his bus into the loading bay And checks tickets at the folding doors. With teared eyes I wave, At the back of a bus as it drives Into the dreary autumn sun set, Down the interstate and out of the city. Life is a bus station, The place between Where the crooked lights are on Through the windows they shine a lighthouse’s winking eye to a captain Trapped in the tumulting waves Of a wrecking sea storm. The bus honks at it leaves, And we wave to the driver Who bravely heads down the road That we all walk down in the end

42

Dear Patty, I have never met a child or a poem ***born to live a free verse life, willingly submit to patrician powdered **** cheek horror at the unconformity of escapading, river rafting verbal tumulting, never awoken needy to be yoked by syllabic laws of brutalists, jailed by autocratic diktats of meter, or the iron confines of lines formatted, imprisoned, once set free, they then opine-id prithee prithee, prithee please sir on my license plating, can I whine, write free or die*** ***bind me not by the rigid sharpies of executed orders, or count the numbered breaths tween my freedom riders, escaping with grinning faces shouting seen-u-around, and don't forget to say bye bye to the tortuous pretense of them haiku hi hi hooliganisms, and the amoebic pentameter of a speare chuckere who was foolishly glad to trade the kingdom of freedom for a besaddled horse led around by the reign of ruthless rules*** is this crystal-a-line clear my dear?

0

Jan 29, 2025

Jan 29, 2025 at 12:51 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

I have never met a child or a poem

Dear Patty, I have never met a child or a poem ***born to live a free verse life, willingly submit to patrician powdered **** cheek horror at the unconformity of escapading, river rafting verbal tumulting, never awoken needy to be yoked by syllabic laws of brutalists, jailed by autocratic diktats of meter, or the iron confines of lines formatted, imprisoned, once set free, they then opine-id prithee prithee, prithee please sir on my license plating, can I whine, write free or die*** ***bind me not by the rigid sharpies of executed orders, or count the numbered breaths tween my freedom riders, escaping with grinning faces shouting seen-u-around, and don't forget to say bye bye to the tortuous pretense of them haiku hi hi hooliganisms, and the amoebic pentameter of a speare chuckere who was foolishly glad to trade the kingdom of freedom for a besaddled horse led around by the reign of ruthless rules*** is this crystal-a-line clear my dear?

37