"unappeasable" poems
Humans are by nature
unappeasable no matter their behavior.
As a conformist
We threaten outsiders,
Yet long to be our own person.
And individuality is no better,
We long for acceptance of
The group we once called home.
That is the nature of humans,
We viscously treat
those that are not like us.
Its no wonder so few are happy
with such constant inner confliction.
Because the human mind is
a kingdom ruled by two fears,
Fear of the unknown,
And Fear of rejection.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:39 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 Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,
And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes,
For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,
With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:
I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast,
And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.
Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea;
Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West;
Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat
The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering
ghost;
O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host
Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.
1.3k
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.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
Paris, earlier today. It’s a (vaccinated) summer family reunion and I’m catching up with relatives I haven’t seen for AGES. Like my impeccably dressed (three piece suit on a warm, un-air-conditioned, Saturday) 83 year old great uncle.
We cheek kiss
“STILL searching for love, Uncle Remy?”
“Forget love. My dear, I’m an old, self-absorbed narcissist. What I look for is someone young and frivolous whose most complicated desire is fun - specifically fun that can be bought - that’s an important distinction.”
I gasp and pose.
“You’re looking for MEEEE!,” I squeal.
“Oh, if I needed a spoiled, over-serious, temperamental, unappeasable rich girl - I’d think of you.”
“You GET me!,” I beam with pride*
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 2:46 PM UTC
The relentless sky releases its downpour
Droplets pounding against the glass
I do not even bat an eye
As I hear the lighting clash
I listen to the thunder boom
Like the mighty lion's roar
Inside my head with my unappeasable demons
I am persistently at war
The battle is unfolding
The storm still raging on
I wonder when both will cease
I wonder if I'll live til dawn
The only thing I wish for is from my shackles to be free
I have to ask, which is worse
The storm outside or the one brewing inside of me?
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
A weary face stares back at us all
Giants grow tall
Where the small minded are casted!!!
All concepts to be trapped in
Our man made prisons!!!
Such derision is unanswered!!
The garden men and planters
Make grow all thou conceives today
Love seekers to slaves,
What's the difference in its core?
Some cry out for extras
While Heartbreakers take more!!!!
More of nothing left
A thief to every theft
A liar per every aching tongue!!!!
Unappeasable audiences
Bookies seek out bondmaids
For their own completion!!!!
So cunning
To these lust cumulaters!!!!
Electrode pulses
Bypass what's become of us,
Eristic flumes
Travel fluctuating rooms
Wherein keyholes haveth no fit
Acidic spit
Lines the dried out mouth's
They gaze
They count
But add nothing to their foulard writings!!!!
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
A weary face stareth back at us all,
Giants grow tall where thy small minded are casted!!!
All concept to be trapped in our man made prism's!
Such derision is unanswered,
The gardenmen and planters make grow all thou conceiveth today!!!!
Love seekers to slaves,
What's the difference in its core?
Some cry out for extras,
While Heartbreakers taketh more!!!!
More of nothing left!!!
A thief to their theft,
A liar for every aching tounge!!!
Unappeasable audiences,
Bookies seek out bondmaids for their own descretion!!!!
Non completion soo cunning to these lusted cumulaters!!!!
Damsel,
Where art thou?
Elyptic in thy writings?
I proceed!!!
Laughing to bleed,
Or bleeding to die?
Electrode pulses bypass what's become of us,
Eristic flumes travel fluctuating rooms,
Where thy keyhole has no fit!!!!!
Acidic spit lines the dried out apertures,
They yawp ,
They count,
But add nothing to their foulard writings!!!!!
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
Just like everything else she goes away in the end,
there's no such thing as special,
it's all just the false spectrum of our perceivable desires,
liberty's eyes of unappeasable bliss maniacally stabbed out,
everything is nothing,
and nothing doesn't exist,
In the unforgivable end I'm always alone,
I live for your romance, but my love lets me starve,
loves unstable walls of unbridled lust,
The ****** weeping angels of pride,
classical war zones of ridiculed misery,
the devils mine of fraudulent consciousness,
starkness clouds of fictitious reality,
life's a dangerous game, humanities humble begrudging essence,
all for one and none for all,
our world's gone mad,
all lives taking part in the hollow pit of it's permanent nothingness,
it's a sad sad world
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
A sadness that I implore.
It is sweet yet, indignating.
Why, you might ask?
The truth is …
There is no truth once you are God.
Everything is true.
To the criminal who ***** and killed his daughters
To the dying voices of the martyr mothers who protected their family.
Foucault says it too.
It is true. What is better than truth?
That question will end the day we realise that we are all true.
Even in the art of lying, there is a truth.
There is pukka.
There is an inexplicable oneness.
It is unappeasable.
One has to accept it.
Even your murderer has a point.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
When I look into your eyes, I see passion.
I see the times I haven't been there for you
The burned memories in your skin
I see the tears that have yet to be shed
And all the ones that have cascaded down your face
When looking into your eyes,
I see your burning passion
for malevolence
I see past what I see, deep within your spirit
Your unappeasable soul
I see your scars,
The cruelty behind them
In your eyes, I see you need to be loved
I see your commitment to being loyal
Your desire to have someone there for you
In your eyes,
I see you finding yourself
I see questions unanswered
In your eyes,
Your pain burns a hole in my heart
The kind that wants to embrace you for hours
The **** in your eyes
The constant let downs
The future success
Your eyes hold burning passions that need to be let out
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
Glutinous envy consumed
her features.
Once a creation of life's art.
Distortional envy cracked,
a fractured shell.
Pieces fitting incorrectly.
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 7:21 PM UTC
ROBIN REDBREAST
It was the dingiest bird
you ever saw, all the color
washed from him, as if
he had been standing in the rain,
friendless and stiff and cold,
since Eden went wrong.
In the house marked FOR SALE,
where nobody made a sound,
in the room where I lived
with an empty page, I had heard
the squawking of the jays
under the wild persimmons
tormenting him.
So I scooped him up
after they knocked him down,
in league with that ounce of heart
pounding in my palm,
that dumb beak gaping.
Poor thing! Poor foolish life!
without sense enough to stop
running in desperate circles,
needing my lucky help
to toss him back into his element.
But when I held him high,
fear clutched my hand,
for through the hole in his head,
cut whistle-clean . .
through the old dried wound
where the hunter's brand
had tunneled out his wits
I caught the cold flash of the blue
Unappeasable sky.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
I'm in favor that return,
Neither of us can tolerate this, in vain,
Season of travellers dressed red pain,
Strange ghosts, figures without eyes,
Pale faces with speechless cries,
Die on paths to paradise,
As lost memories recollect faded purposes,
Beseeching unappeasable promises,
Offered nearer to hope before despair,
suspended nowhere, reflecting a loitering nightmare,
Closer to their decayed bodies, their rotten flare,
I hope we compel our senses to return,
Enchanting fancies delude souls' Yearn,
To places swaying between sleep and dreams,
Where the unknown devours awareness beams;
See soul, supple promises have no signs here,
But whispers among whispers twitter near,
Unnatural tales in voiceless words in timeless sleep,
Divert eager faith, that courageously weep.
The closest to me, backward, we better creep.
To these worldly loving hearts who discern
where faiths convert concern to deep concern.
Written by
Jamal Abboud
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC