"unbloomed" poems
You don't know her
She is always forgotten
In your memories but soon your lips will only describe her as nondescript
The script of her life
How did she go from being so sweet to rotten
From just nightmares to sleep walking
Sweet ole her
Innocent and pure
Now she is impaired
In the need of refinement
But she doesn't have the strength to try it
You see she is chained to the past
Barely saw her dad
He was mean
Always got the last word
Drunk and abusive
Her mom was an unbloomed tulip
Looked kind but was bitter to her daughter
They'd fight and she would cry at night
She was ashamed of and had extreme anger for mother
How can you watch as she takes hits
Instead of intervening
Police bust down the doors and drag dad to jail
To the homeless shelter we go
No money, no home
It is cold
I barely knew what was going on around me
Refuse to talk to adults because they were all so confusing
And honestly my questions only led to answers that were lies
I had fear in my eye
The things that I had seen
The smoke filled air I'd breathe
Let's not forget the bullies
That talk stuff because I was so "imperfect"
Never had the latest brands
Because mom had no bands
Let's not forget how dad was back again
All hope was drained
She had thoughts of suicide and then a boy came
Walked his way in
She spilled her ink onto his page
He left anyways
Guess her story was too boring
You don't know her
You did at a time
She is nothing but rotten
And only meant to be forgotten
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
I was always more of an autumn girl, there was something so poetic about watching the leaves fall, maybe that's why I always hated spring. But then you appeared, on that hot april night. So full of leaves. You told me I was an unbloomed flower. So you water me with laughs and sweet words, in a couple of days I started blooming. And then I understood how wonderful spring was.
I now see flowers so differently and with so much respect, because it is so hard to bloom in the time we live in, we are so full of toxic people and words that stick to us like poison ivy, yet you made it look so easy for me.
you told me that I should bloom like a wildflower, no matter the place, no matter the season, no matter the circumstances, you have the ability to brighten up someone's path.
(b.c.)
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
The Dutch brought art, mud and dirt of the Kathmandu heartland,
With cigarette smoke clouding the air, and pizzas in the oven.
Not overcooked, no medium rare, slight rounded, man-made
The ambiance was now of Rembrandt and Van Gogh,
Yellow with the hint of light.
Perhaps coffee, perhaps tea.
And delight in a conversation of philosophy.
Maybe you'll pay, maybe me.
The open doors swallow in the air of the monsoon,
with the enigma of ever binding books who stuck to the wall
Like wall flowers, some folded papers like petals of an unbloomed bud.
They all had smells better inhaled with tobacco smoke.
The music played, and people dance within the security of their thoughts,
The shelter for their thoughts, the flaws of their speech.
Memories,pure and bright radiated from the lamps above the bar,
Lights which come to us only in fallen stars, but wishful thinking
is dangerous.
Hence forget it like Dutch forgot the wars.
Memories are made here, where the humidity is heavy from the perfume of heavy smiles, or folded chins and forheads from a chess game.
Not hidden, no worries, around the corner.
But yet again man made.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
I am the flower that didn't bloom,
The broken record, out of tune,
Oh won't you love me, please hear my plight,
Because you're the thing my mind plays at night,
A rich symphony in your right,
I give into you without a fight,
You fill my lungs with much needed air,
You can't go,
Don't even dare,
For without you, I fall apart,
And that unbloomed flower, left, with a broken heart.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC
From the moment I took a breathe,
I was thrown into a narrow way of life.
Unfair way of thinking.
Stunting my progression.
I had to be the perfect little Mormon girl.
"Stand up straight.
Talk like a young lady."
I couldn't express my individuallaity.
Ironically the way god made me.
The words dug in deep perpetually.
"Your eyeliner is to deep you look like a harlet.
What the hell are you wearing?"
I dressed to **** and **** meant ***
*** made you a deformed unbloomed flower unless you were married.
I was misinformed constantly.
I didn't want to go to hell I wanted my family to support me.
I put on show for far to long trying to please everybody.
I couldn't understand why something so true and great could bring nothing but shame and misery.
I gave my everything and it was killing me.
I was drove to the fine line of insanity.
Free falling down so beautifully.
Finding myself in an erratic deranged way.
No longer following any man into the ground.
Keeping the firm heart within me.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
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Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.
living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season
loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings
arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity
these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!
here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises
May 26 ~ 27, 2023
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 4:55 PM UTC
That was then, this is now
Who was where when what was how?
Hear them take their last breath as they're shot down
I scream
Floating in the gene pool, expecting the man who can walk on water to arrive
Sell outs and everyone who has had a bad week even though it's only Monday
Whippersnappers hang their heads in shame
I am one of twelve
So expendable
We live in gluttony
Lineleaders, math teachers, bottom-feeders have no idea
Watch them fall and be forced to crawl on their bellies
We laugh
Lewandowsky-Lutz dysplasia, getting back to your roots
Progeric clock-makers, lying dead on The Yellow Brick Road
Thin-skinned Transsexuals putting bricks in their purses
We live by eight
We die from our weight
And go unbloomed
-Tommy Johnson
Standing in a nuclear reactor somewhere in Chernobyl looking for the truth
It might be in my contaminated endoplasmic reticulum
I am a radiant
Doppler radar
Monopoly dollar
Singing in the shower, amateur hour
Projecting sour notes
Pouring out their hearts and souls, hear them
Trying
Moo-juice nectar, spilling off The Round Table
Blondes in red bracelets, Kabbalah saves them
Henry pays no tax, John Berryman's bats tell us
You are the lunatic
We are the two quarters of a half-wit
This whole thing is insane
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
When I forgive the monsters among the trees, my petals will grow dusted pink--
These days, I have become a skeleton made of thorns,
An unbloomed rosebush stark against the gentle green.
Sometimes I see sunlight beyond the thick-leaf canopy,
Splintered by branches and trunks more mighty than I may ever grow,
And I recall the sweet and far flowered days, wet with morning dew.
The monsters came in summer heat with clouds for tails and roots hard as stone--
They trod rough on my leaves and stole my roses with grinding teeth,
And left me naked among oaken giants.
Six flooded springs have passed, though every dawn breaks cold,
A suffocating haze, thick as if the sky itself fell to weigh me down,
How slowly fog burns under the rising sun.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner
for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,
and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract
house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,
and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,
and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,
and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the
neighbor’s unbloomed roses;
and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,
and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow
lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and
the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,
and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.
The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…
the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,
the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,
and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,
the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields
where your dad smokes *** and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,
And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,
flame retardant,
american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,
Amen.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
Here lies a bud that could not bloom
Gift upon earth, taken too soon
A seed which was planted who grew
In my heart, lives in my memories
Was forced to depart. Such pain left
Me breathless, swallowed me whole as
I sought my way out seeking truths
Left untold. We all serve purpose
As hard as it Seems to accept
These as reasons to see pureness
Decease. This Seed which was planted
who grew in My heart has blossomed
Inside me ever changing my
Path. Lives on within me, swallowed
Me whole now joining my journey
As the missing piece to my soul.
© Karen L Hamilton, 2015
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
If it shall be then so shall it be
For this is what is thought of me
Like an empty vase within your room
I am the flower that will never bloom
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 9:38 PM UTC
When you say that you miss her,
do you miss her intelligence, her humour?
What about her laughter, the sparkle
in her eye when you reach out to tickle
her during your date to the movies
and how she complains when you add anchovies
to your pizza? Do you miss that
or do you just miss bringing her to bed,
a willing body that reciprocate
to your constant inner needs?
Her whole being is a temple
for you to worship but you trampled
on her garden, leaving crushed
seeds of hope and scatters of unbloomed
dreams of being loved and adorned.
Guess you never felt guilty for leaving her torn.
-m.b
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
You're living out a death wish
And I am too
With every cigarette we smoke
Every sip of poison that runs us thru
And life plays this ruse
Where it pretends to be big
But it's all bark and no bite when we remember our future in the clouds
We're excited to live and even more
so to die
The road to awe
The greatest surprise
Wonder we might
About what's upon the other side
I feel we already know
We already see a meager slice
i theorize what we'll find
Is the rest of the whites in our eyes
That ****** mother type white hidden beneath our iris
The teacher of our pupil
Blue vines intertwined with immaculate prospects
Having never kissed oxygen
This is not a love story
This is death
This is the illusion of an end
This life is the speck of gold in a deep brown eye
Small and obnoxious
Beautiful and important
I am speaking of the gateway
To behold our unbloomed glory
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
Can you remember the very moment
You learned your dreams were fairy tales
That your ambition is recited
From an endless paper trail
Another year deeper
In the wake of a dream
The story of prince charming
Echos in your father’s voice
Like he’ll bring your happy ending
Like you have some sort of choice
And like the delicate princess
Boys guard their pedestal for
They’ll tread the unbloomed flowers
Already strewn on the floor
Another year deeper
In the wake of a dream
Before you pull the hopes
Off children’s bookshelves
Remember, in the end
They’ll just learn for themselves
So go blind from the dress
And the white picket fence
Those paper trail dreams
Will start to make sense
Another year deeper
In the wake of a dream
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 9:25 AM UTC
Exquisite chains of unseen hours
All lie in fantasies
In countless dreams of unbloomed flowers
Moon dancing in your sea
Petals soft on beds of sand
Tremble at your touch
As their spirits are awakened by the hand
Of love's own velvet brush
Soulful cries of blissful glee
Echo to the moon
Resounding from the heart's own sea
Left enamored by the bloom
Beauty sweet and triumph slow
Swirling in the sand
Painting strokes of blooming glow
Moon dancing in your hands
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 6:22 PM UTC
drunk on each other's turpentine
from your wet kisses
your wet body wedged between
my wet body and the kitchen counter
the sky's rim breaching through windows
you'll find my love between the soul and shadow
the equinox of days and night,
i love you and your secrets buried in the unbloomed flower
keeping its petals to itself
the fragrance of rain and the aroma of earth
i will wander amongst these fields, open
i watched you grow
i will not love you a certain way, as i do not know how
i will only love so close that with your hands on my
breasts, they become close like hands
i will only love so close that your eyes will see what
i dream of when i sleep
i will only love, because i only can love
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
There are little tiny fears
Stabbing like pinpricks of light
They don't really hurt but I feel them
As I stay up late tonight.
I'm afraid to be open
I think I should be closed
But the more I try to shut them out
The more I am an in unbloomed rose.
The later it gets, the worse I feel
Fears tucking in the bedsheets
The fact that I'm afraid of the dark
Is one of my lifelong feats.
Anger drives some fears away
But they inevitably return
Maybe if I banished with love
I'd actually learn.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
I had a dream and it brought me back
To that summer we spent
Before it all turned black
We stood in a field of daisies
We stood there alone
With the suns rays upon us
And no where to go
These flowers stood tall
They stood not yet bloomed
The sun shined bright
as your face did, too
you looked at me with something to say
And whispered to me
About a day
The day these flowers are no longer unbloomed
That will be the day that I can be with you
The flowers never grew
The dream had come to an end
I am left here to wonder
How and when
I can get myself back
To that summer we spent
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
Oh how I used to dream of greater worlds and unreachable voids.
I used to pretend to ignore you in the hallways to fulfill
my inexplicable, over-the-top fantasies of finally leaving this
awful, monochromatic town full of secrets, truths, and lies.
I knew better yet still told dozens and dozens of tales that I, myself,
wanted to hear. I thought if I said it enough, one day I would soon
believe myself and my what-ifs of curiosity and greater days.
Plants start as seeds though, and bloom and then one day just
stop growing, and existing, and leave without a story to tell
the world. I would rather die unbloomed than turn bitter and jaded
like the rest, but when all of your petals are left for the flames to
consume, nothing seems to comfort you anymore. Nothing is left
in the world, and all of the bells have stopped ringing and the choir
finished singing, and you are left in your own desolation with no hand to hold.
The typewriter has solely come to a pause and the tape remains needing to be unwound.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Precious seconds fill the void of time
For every second that goes by
One month has passed
And only eleven more
Before the end.
Do you just sit there
Waiting to be consumed,
Or do you feel life
In every second that passes?
Either way your time is limited.
Are you here?
Are you present in this moment,
Or is the passing of time something that happens to you?
What did you eat for breakfast last monday?
Do you even remember this morning?
Don’t let these precious seconds slip by,
Just because they’re not tied to precious memories.
Because the seconds with the people you love,
And the ones passed in the monotony of the day to day,
Are all the same length,
And each is an equal step forward
To the last second you get to spend.
Wilting is in our nature;
It's a part of existence
But the wilting bud left unbloomed
Leaves no greater waste
Of beautiful minds.
Sprout and let your roots
Plant deep
But let your heart show
That what you keep to yourself,
Doesn’t need to be uprooted
To be shown.
Just because the sky breathes
Winter through the clouds,
Doesn’t mean the sun
Isn’t shining behind them’
Don’t let yourself wilt
Just because the sky gives an excuse.
Existential horror.
The dread of being on a conveyor belt,
Taken somewhere you don’t know,
Your destination far away or around the corner,
With no power to slow down or stop.
Now or later,
We all reach the destination we’re bound for,
So why waste another moment,
Staring blankly down,
In attempts to deny you’re going anywhere?
Look up,
And join us as we face the end with hope.
334 more days.
334 more opportunities to live instead of simply not dying.
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 11:12 PM UTC
Like Christ I was betrayed by a kiss
The best kiss I ever wasted
The one delayed with a wish
The last I never tasted
Twas the sublime decline of the un-divine find from the mine within my mind
My new muse fused with pure white beacons of truth;
It was love.
It is love.
It will always be love.
Until the bodhisattva’s of bohemia are free to leave in peace,
Until the unbloomed seek what their enlightened prophets beseech.
When the the ****** find nirvana by practice of kinder hearted karma
Then and only then the world will know peace
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 11:36 AM UTC
i am afraid to lose
each petal of opportunity
i'd hate to remain unbloomed
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
I AM IN Control OF MY OWN Soul.
IT IS MY Goal TO Keep IT Whole.
ALL MY Power Will Devour Within THE Hour.
I Need A Bath OR A Shower.
Turning MY World Sour.
AN Unbloomed Flower.
I Strayed FAR Away TO A Place That Portrayed TO Betray ALL MY Days.
NOT Just Today.
****** IN A WAY.
Never Wanting TO Stay.
I DON'T Pray. Animals ARE WHO I Obey. Telepathically Their Wishes ARE Conveyed.
Games Aren'T Played.
Furry Friends ARE Holy Vessels.
TO HUG, Kiss, & Nestle.
Everyday TO NO ONE'S Dismay.
Earth IS Where They Should Stay.
TO BE A Mother & A Father NOT Sent TO Slaughter. NOT Breeded or Unneeded.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC