"unavailing" poems
In a happy reign there should be no hermits;
The wise and able should consult together....
So you, a man of the eastern mountains,
Gave up your life of picking herbs
And came all the way to the Gate of Gold --
But you found your devotion unavailing.
...To spend the Day of No Fire on one of the southern rivers,
You have mended your spring clothes here in these northern cities.
I pour you the farewell wine as you set out from the capital --
Soon I shall be left behind here by my bosomfriend.
In your sail-boat of sweet cinnamon-wood
You will float again toward your own thatch door,
Led along by distant trees
To a sunset shining on a far-away town.
...What though your purpose happened to fail,
Doubt not that some of us can hear high music.
9.9k
the definiton of a non ******* factor is you
something or someone that doesnt matter and i wont give my energy to
a selfless or worthless human being
who is miserable unhappy and on pity and drama they feed
i dont give a **** about you your feelings or thought
all in my business you seem to care alot
non factor *** *****
save yaself the embarrassment when you see me dont say ****
no snares, conversation, or smart comments
there are alot of things in this world that dont matter
and one of those things are ppl like you non ******* factors
when your name pops up these things come to mind
valueless,cheap,shoddy,useless,ineffective,and not worth time
along with fruitless,unavailing,pointless, oh and good for nothing slim
now since i knw your slow go to a dictionary to define
you are a disaster created by a ****** tragic mistake
something your mother didnt want but having an abortion became a option to late
**** more like dirt under my shoe
aww look at the non ******* factor get mad just look at you
go ahead run ya mouth let ya teeth chatter
who the hell is going to listen to a non ******* factor......
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 10:32 PM UTC
Through airy roads he wings his instant flight
To purer regions of celestial light;
Enlarg’d he sees unnumber’d systems roll,
Beneath him sees the universal whole,
Planets on planets run their destin’d round,
And circling wonders fill the vast profound.
Th’ ethereal now, and now th’ empyreal skies
With growing splendors strike his wond’ring eyes:
The angels view him with delight unknown,
Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;
Then smilling thus: “To this divine abode,
“The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,
“Thrice welcome thou.” The raptur’d babe replies,
“Thanks to my God, who snatch’d me to the skies,
“E’er vice triumphant had possess’d my heart,
“E’er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart,
“E’er yet on sin’s base actions I was bent,
“E’er yet I knew temptation’s dire intent;
“E’er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,
“E’er vanity had led my way to guilt,
“But, soon arriv’d at my celestial goal,
“Full glories rush on my expanding soul.”
Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round
Clapt their glad wings, the heav’nly vaults resound.
Say, parents, why this unavailing moan?
Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?
To Charles, the happy subject of my song,
A brighter world, and nobler strains belong.
Say would you tear him from the realms above
By thoughtless wishes, and prepost’rous love?
Doth his felicity increase your pain?
Or could you welcome to this world again
The heir of bliss? with a superior air
Methinks he answers with a smile severe,
“Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.”
But still you cry, “Can we the sigh borbear,
“And still and still must we not pour the tear?
“Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,
“Twelve moons revolv’d, becomes the prey of death;
“Delightful infant, nightly visions give
“Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive,
“We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,
“The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.”
To yon bright regions let your faith ascend,
Prepare to join your dearest infant friend
In pleasures without measure, without end.
2.5k
While others chant of gay Elysian scenes,
Of balmy zephyrs, and of flow’ry plains,
My song more happy speaks a greater name,
Feels higher motives and a nobler flame.
For thee, O R—, the muse attunes her strings,
And mounts sublime above inferior things.
I sing not now of green embow’ring woods,
I sing not now the daughters of the floods,
I sing not of the storms o’er ocean driv’n,
And how they howl’d along the waste of heav’n.
But I to R——- would paint the British shore,
And vast Atlantic, not untry’d before:
Thy life impair’d commands thee to arise,
Leave these bleak regions and inclement skies,
Where chilling winds return the winter past,
And nature shudders at the furious blast.
O thou stupendous, earth-enclosing main
Exert thy wonders to the world again!
If ere thy pow’r prolong’d the fleeting breath,
Turn’d back the shafts, and mock’d the gates of death,
If ere thine air dispens’d an healing pow’r,
Or snatch’d the victim from the fatal hour,
This equal case demands thine equal care,
And equal wonders may this patient share.
But unavailing, frantic is the dream
To hope thine aid without the aid of him
Who gave thee birth and taught thee where to flow,
And in thy waves his various blessings show.
May R—return to view his native shore
Replete with vigour not his own before,
Then shall we see with pleasure and surprise,
And own thy work, great Ruler of the skies!
1.9k
I HAVE heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,
Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am contented, for I know that Quiet
Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,
Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee.
1.7k
There is something breeding in the underbelly;
whirling and churning like an epicenter of *********** trends.
Someone found the formula to turn a profit on karma,
while we were distracted by viral beheadings.
Powder white moths opening mental portals
through the dazzling lights of self-immolation
while I trudge block after block through the snow
wearing slippers because I had to storm out.
The classes continue, the mail keeps going out, coming in,
and I'm obsessing over a splinter of worry; unavailing at best.
I keep thinking of how nice it'd be to see Seattle
and to stand near one of those Sequoia trees I've only seen on Google.
I keep thinking of how I'd like to see The Grand Canyon
and to to walk in the Arizona deserts with no socks or shoes;
the heat of the fine sand sneaking up between my toes
while the sky beats my pupils with that astounding blue.
Why am always alone in my fantasies?
Why is it that I can't handle the day-to-day?
Am I really even searching for answers,
or am I begging for what I want to hear?
My maturity and stoicity are rubber ***** bouncing on a line graph.
I can't go on bottling the venom that pools in my gut.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses,
I blast not the fiends who have hurl’d me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this—
Was my eye, ’stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright’ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
Yet, still, though we bend with a feign’d resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
Oh! when, my ador’d, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested—the dead.
1.4k
nearly five years old
my nephew plays
with a stethoscope
a fully functioning
auscultatory device
not just some toy
of unavailing plastic
and purposeless rubber
lost to his imagination
he holds the chest piece
against my sternum
the diaphragm cold
even through my shirt
making me pull away
momentarily
out of instinct or habit
even though
it is not needed
he sits listening
concentration tight
across his brow
with very real concern
as he informs me
that he can't hear anything
that i must just have
no heart at all
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 9:39 AM UTC
No matter how much she tried,
She couldn’t defeat the Darkness,
Pushing and pulling
Her and throwing her all around.
No matter how hard the light tried,
It couldn’t even pierce the black wall
That had been built all around her.
Her world was black and white,
Completely drained of colour.
No rainbows appeared,
Neither did the sun.
Alas, she grew more and more terrified,
Unable to stop the terrors of the Dark.
She finally let go and let the Blackness engulf her…
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
I strive for any sense of sanity my body has left
and you could inject lithium into my bloodstream
all you wanted but that will never take away
the stream of conscious to which I face every **** day.
And I speak these words in a volume only sincere ears
could hone into and leech off of for their own sanity,
but things are never that easy.
Affirmation is like a drug and sanity like a ghost
you get addicted to those things in which
we are not usually accustomed to
that sincerity so comforting it's hard to let go.
Most people do drugs to forget,
but ******* with you,
I want to remember every single moment-
harness it inside my memory and save it as draft
so I can post it to my retinas later that night
when I'm loosing sleep because I cannot rid of the ghosts
I've spent both my night and day fighting off.
I want to crash and burn
I want to live a life like all the crazy poets
and authors and writers that never held dear to their sanity
they embraced their madness and embarked on a journey
throwing away any sense of normalcy they had.
But maybe, I should do as you say
or do as my father says-
ya know, just deal with my problems on my own.
It's kind of crazy because you both say the same thing
which leads me to believe that women do end up
marrying their fathers which I fear-
more than any other obstacle in my life
because my broken wings were built upon my fathers shoulders
and upon mine is more weight than I can carry,
So i'm sorry you've become a muse for my misplaced sanity
and a drawing board for my dilemmas
but baby, you have not seen dramatic.
Not from me at least and it's not safe for me
to hide this part of myself away from you..
But it's like you want me to.
And one day, oh god one day
I will crack under the pressure placed upon these shoulders
and try to fly with these broken wings
and I will crash and burn like alll those people
and it's then I will realize
that hiding away this part of myself
in spite of everything I know,
will be the best and the worst thing I've ever done.
and I'm so ******* tired,
that tired isn't even the word to describe it,
more like futile or unavailing because
I hide away parts of myself for the ones I love
and they itch to come at the surface like a growing tick
ready to explode distracted by euphoria filling it's stomach.
I am not okay, and I'm kind of tired of acting like it.
I am a ticking time bomb
ready to blow your ******* head off at any second
one you will never be able to disable-
and this, this is manic depression.
I wish it was as beautiful as Hendrix made it seem.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
How did it happen,
That I am privy to your heart
But you, not to mine?
The wishing of worlds long asleep
Will not change the damage done.
Sleep, my heart drowning in sorrow,
Like the soft rain
Which rolls in on a misty morning.
Catch my hope
Before it ripens into conscious thought
And furtively deposit seeds of tears
To replenish salted earth.
Scorched heart, you lie still
Heavy with the grief
Of unexpressed love
Which now must hide
Behind shuttered eyes.
My sorrow, unavailing.
You will not change
And I cannot bear it.
Copyright/All rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2011
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 9:52 PM UTC
Captive to an enigma of mirrors
where infinity is seen to grow nearer
but delicate fingers stop at cold glass.
Escaping Plato's Cave but reaching impasse,
perception eludes reality's grasp.
As wise men sit patient and cowards gasp
intelligence hammers at mimicking bars
unavailing, retreating with only scars.
Self projections linger 'cross barren plains
mind forgotten freedom, shackled in chains,
hungry men compose spoken free verse
bellowed harmoniously unrehearsed;
but only one voice reality sings
I am the first of the mirror box kings.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 1:57 PM UTC
United in sadness
o'er a wars
unavailing remorse,
these sorrowful eyes
of ours weep the
regrettable cries
of woe which pours
fastest o'er the fruitless
longing that forced
the hand that feeds
to clench into a fist;
a violence that too
many know,
and I
am no passerby in
this
-my house was supposed
to be a home.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC
Inquest
Is it better to have
Loved and
Lost and
Learned the
Lecture of
Life; unavailing
Or be it
Simple and
Stay
Silent and
Survey the
Selfless shadow of solitary
I have
Yet to
Yield a
Yearning for
Yesterday; I am
Young
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
Life has moments worth living and
is too beautiful to insist into unavailing loves.
Life is too short trying constantly to fix
mistakes of the past,
is too subversive to rest upon provisional facts
for the scraps inflict new wounds
and all that matters is not how many wounds
have been opened but how many
can be closed.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
Copious thoughts inside the head
Each thought mutating into a question
The mind doing a valiant effort for the answers
While the heart screaming as all the effort is unavailing
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
Flying into fate
Undersea I will heave
Were bottomless as it appears
Handfuls of love
That I will hold
Attaching the root of my tears
Dusty jagged pieces of demise
Our nest has wings we wear in the night
Our cells are feeble
As I heave them into the sky
Climaxing without a sound
Between my hips unavailing the mystery of this love
Lily's dust the calloused roots of truth
Smoking sidewalks jagged and raw
Expressions grasped with humanity and bliss
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
I use this in vain,
because i am unavailing,
Just another kind of feckless person,
and more worsen,
a scrap,
onto the crack,
you never made me feel any good,
which I have should,
I guess I had never understood,
tried to but misunderstood,
A LOT!!!!
In a isolated area,
feeling nothing but frustrated,
I'm just another nix,
never to fix,
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
If every moment,
Like a seashell tossed on a rocky beach,
is made to shatter,
And feelings are not meant to last forever,
Does anything truly matter?
If our fates have been fixed,
And our actions are dictated
By manuscripts,
Is free-will just a romanticized
fantasy?
Must I live a life of acquiesce,
Allowing myself to be prodded by the waves?
Must my time merely consist of
Futile attempts to squeeze into
A procrustean bed?
Are there no dreams,
So inciting and mellifluous,
Worth fighting for?
Is there any sense in
Pretending to be free?
I am not content to sit back and watch
My future drift away like a ship at sea.
I can be passive no longer.
Though my efforts may be unavailing,
I will grapple with the current,
Claiming sovereignty.
And if I am to fail,
Let me plummet like an anchor,
Into the dark, liquid,
Abyss.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
if existence is merely an illusionary veil across our lids
then the inner euphoria that comes with this deception
must merely be a vindication of a life well-lived,
a life well-deceived.
if the misery and despair that drove the slits on my wrist
were simply drifting facades, simply an imitation of tangible grief
then which part of my suffering am I supposed to believe
was a concrete part of the life
I assumed that I lived.
if so,
why do we plainly disregard the ticking clock set upon our souls
the unrelenting countdown to our demise,
and commence the futile cycle of attaining earthly affluence
too worthless to transport into the abyss
that charters all that you believed.
what if the breeze brushes your final flame
and no god exists to magistrate your sins
and solely the predicament of non-existence
occupies the nullity of your fading essence.
then is living truly a desolate state
with a hopeless beginning and an unavailing end,
and just the perpetual succession
of a life fully, entirely, deceived.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 5:25 AM UTC
Someone needs to tell my heart
Get it to believe
That to you I don't mean anything
Let us no more be deceived
For you act recklessly,
Not a thought to spare
To show that you care
That just isn't fair
Does a two sided pretence change reality?
Our silenced story remains
Must we continue with formality
Till either of us can no longer abstain?
Someone needs to tell my heart
Get it to believe that its over
Until then our lives are paused
On this unavailing course.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
Can you feel me through this poem?
Can you hear the metronome;
my heartbeat pulsing, calm but rapid?
Words on pages— simply vapid
glimpses to the depths of me
with fire-fed intensity,
and every line revealing more the
faulty fervor in my story.
Is it true or am I rambling?
Babbling synonyms while gambling
reasoning and rationale
to find the words to tell my tale,
with each new word confusing more
the moral that I’m striving for?
So slit my wrists and drag me bleeding
through the depths of hell, repeating.
Break my heart and bring me, wailing,
seeking comfort unavailing.
Show me beauty, gouge my eyes,
feign the truth in webs of lies.
Crush my legs and make me walk,
then stitch my mouth shut, make me talk.
Find my soulmate, **** them quick—
I’m the window, you’re the brick.
Am I sane or am I crazy?
Spewing darkness, sitting lazy—
cozy in the life I lead,
all snuggled with the cup of tea
I’m sipping in my favorite chair,
not blissful nor in great despair.
So take my hand and lead me, beaming,
through the twilight, stars a-gleaming.
Look me in the eye and slightly
bite your lip, then kiss me lightly.
Tell me secrets, hold me tightly,
whisp’ring nothings daily, nightly.
Take our picture, show your friends.
Say you’ll love me ‘til the end.
We’re both the ones we both admire,
You’re the fuel and I’m the fire.
You cannot feel me through this poem.
You cannot hear the metronome;
The pitter-patter of the rain
so calm upon my windowpane.
Words on pages— seldom stating
what I’m truly contemplating.
Am I content or rife with pain?
Is truth in words or in the rain?
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
Pull my sleeve as I descend, to my cave my holy den.
Comfort me and make me see there's so much more that I can be.
impetuous brain, inevitably insane.
When i die what will remain.
A hollow shell an empty name , A calling, unavailing to all days.
Take these bricks tie them suit
The extra weight will help me lose
Watch as I'm pulled to my abyss
The hollow feel of deaths first kiss.
The final breath of life you'll live.
gone with a gasp it goes so quick.
It's over now... i really quit
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
Time waits for no one
No matter the misery one keeps
So, wake up if you dare
From unavailing despair
For the keeper cares not if you sleep
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC