"undetected" poems
What I am,
Is not what you are,
Because unlike you, I never was human.
Never was able to really feel emotions, which you all adore,
Been called a demon for that reason, a monster which was deserted,
Emptiness, calm and drenched in the sorrow of never fitting in is what embellishes me, an ornament of true, cruel sadness, undetected.
And yes, I don't understand you, perhaps I don't even want to, knowing what humans are like, I accepted my fate of being alone,
I let my fingernails grow long and sharp to at least fit into the picture of a monster you have put me, because what else do I have left ?
A heart, perhaps which desires to take those under its wing whom suffered the same tragity, orphans with no place or rejected, abused.
And a body, carrying a thousand marks done by a knife, or these nails, in a cold desperate wishing to be normal at least for a day, to not be alone and deserted, with no one left to talk but a silly pen, a pocket watch which is about to stop ticking calmly, gently very soon.
An ember of light, triggers some emotions at rare occasions, which fade into nothingness as the day begins to face it's end, ah, phantoms
So, what I am,
Is not what you are,
Because I am...
A demon.
~ Umi
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Just a Game. . .
In the comfortable stockade of my mind
Hide and seek cannot be won
Tiptoe away and find a hollow,
The solitary spot
Slipping between turmoil
Festering in alcoves
Always waiting; back tensed,
Adrenalin sheathing the silence
If I remain undetected
Perhaps the seeker will ease off,
Forget the ollie ollie in comfree
Leave me stowed away.
Much later, I could creep into safety
Call a truce, change spots...
Yet unmarred, the same old rules;
Vicious whispers that ask of unknown.
Meaningful glances and gritted teeth,
The shock of lush green eyes chasing down memory lane.
Wake up, Maple. Wake up.
But I wouldn’t, and it didn’t matter.
Because the stabbing whispers would continue inside;
Dueling emotions I long ago left at bay.
Reside there, waiting.
Counting.
Watching.
*Ready or not,
Here
We
Come.*
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
The curves that could **** a man
Aren't at her hips
But dance around her lips
As words that serve neither to stroke nor strangle the silence that tangles inside your grip, but sings and breathes beneath wings of wit from
Those casually crafted curves
Weaving a wind into a wave
Never tumbleweeding out
But either darting
Or floating
To and through you
As an inner voice would
Had you not muffled it with music
And reduced it to one or two loose lipped quips and semantic antics
Curves, warm with form and with friction
Neither liquid or gas in state
With no mass but with weight
They're past but don't pass away
They lay aloft, lingering in the light they were given unto
Or, did they bring the light to you?
Oh yes.
Sultry sounds of synchronizing synapses
Seep and slide deep inside, into the spaces
That two souls so similar, long have sat
Seemingly separate from the infinite vastness
Telepathic, though she doesn't act it.
Hourglass figure, go figure
The hourglass smashes
Or remains undetected, in those seconds
The curves that could **** a man
Form the words that could resurrect him.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
This time the revolution will not be televised
We will not give them a chance to corrupt it with their lies
It will spread instead by word of mouth
In the dark of night
At odd morning hours
In the brilliant blaze of the sun
At odd locations
The revolution will go undetected
Until the ranks become the masses
And the masses become the majority
No color
No creed
No race
Just anger
The shouts of independence
The shouts of freedom
The clenched teeth and clenched fists
Will scream that we’ve had enough
That our stand is here and now
The revolution of possible change
The revolution of tomorrow and the day after
The revolution of now
The revolt against government chains
The revolt against corporate buying and selling
The revolt against misinformation and misdirection
The opening of eyes and voice
The screaming of the silent majority
Protest
In the streets
On the internet
In their heads
Docile no more
Grab your pens
Let loose your tongues
We are going to war
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
From the edge of our atmosphere it flew
nobody knew the craft existed.
Invisible to radar screens out of sight
the spy plane didn't exist.
At the period in history myth or fact
then proof they lacked!
A plane flying at seventy thousand feet
thought an impossible task.
Designed to spy undetected at this height
against their powerful old foe.
But the intrigue when they started to fly
a surge of UFO's reported in the sky!
Was this what pilots were reportedly seeing
and civilians on the ground.
Not alien but man made flying saucer craft
but maybe not all were!
Could it have been this secret spy plane
or something we can't explain!
Strange lights that change shape and colour
blending into one then dividing.
Triangular shapes seen all over the planet
often over groom lake!
So are they secret and developing planes
created on barren salt plains!
Is there a need for mankind to be very afraid
if we knew the secrets being made?
The Foureyed Poet.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:33 AM UTC
Amidst the humidity and darkness of the forest floor
ants scurry in hyper-speed over invisible highways
mushrooms spread boldly beneath wise wooden giants
At night, black panthers weave through thick overgrowth,
undetected, as birds quieten their hungry young and sleep
But even in the rich darkness of the dense forest
micro flashes of silken pink and yellow cream can be seen
catching the moon's light, glowing like precious gems
By day these colours dim in their translucent chambers
atop the world's most beautiful, fearless caterpillar
This tiny being boldly ventures from one leaf to another
while all others cower underneath
Its crystal spikes hide only soft, sticky goo
and it is no bigger than a fingernail
But don't be fooled by its size and raw beauty,
this bejeweled crown easily summons its strength
to move faster than the predators awaiting
Its beauty comes not only from its form
but in its lion-hearted spirit and grace
This confident caterpillar lives
and surrenders to change
without the leaden shackles of fear and worry
and when the time comes
she embraces
and is transformed again
to something new.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
He always wanted to be a ballerina
To dance so dainty up on his toes.
But everyone could see under his tutu
And the bump they saw was not his nose.
He had the talent and the perfect figure
To perform the balletic steps just right.
There was no way he could ever manage
To keep that ample package out of sight.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
His skin was smooth just like a swaddling baby
There was no concern about flat *******
Many ballerinas are rather mannish
With not much curvature to their chests.
So he could pass completely undetected
Androgyny was his great good friend
But any moment when he swirled about
Tutu would lift and then spell the spell would end.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
He never really loved the danseur posture
The holds and lifts and hearty leaps about.
But in the world of ballet and its leaders
Ballerina guys are always left out.
Still he danced in tutu at auditions.
He heard the comments, paid them no mind.
If they could not see grandly male Pavlova
That meant that all of them were blind.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
She sneaks in undetected,
turns off the light
and turns on the lamps;
then like a ghost she is gone.
My sanity is fleeting with every flicker.
Questioning myself,
once, twice.
What ghost was here?
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 6:16 AM UTC
So we soldiered on
Because the lives we led were held on battlefields.
We trudged onward
But it felt like we were stuck there forever
Amidst the crossfire.
Dodging make believe bullets
That whistled sweet melodies to our ears.
We were camouflage.
Trekking undetected
Through the world.
But the war is over.
A few casualties still unaccounted for
On the bloodied floors.
Whatever happened to no man left behind?
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
I get so mad knowing you will never understand what I see.
You can’t see the pain,
the memories,
or the people who make up these images.
My mind works in such an otherworldly way,
I wish it wasn’t so far away.
I wish I could just share it with the world.
Even if the vulnerability hurt me, it’d be worth it to be less lonely.
All my thoughts could be appreciated,
and in their own light,
to the right people only.
I think in sentiment, so the clues of the portraits I create,
would communicate in clear secrecy, the truth they bear about me.
This unimaginable beauty,
that even I only see in glimpses,
would maybe a have a place,
could maybe be hung in a museum,
sold in an auction,
stolen for its value,
fought for to save.
It’s infinite.
the stream, the river, the trees, the forest,,,
the undetected particles in the air glowing in the ray of gold squeezed between the canopy from the sun,
the world of green and blue underneath the repetitive streaming and complicated designs that carry rainbow colored fish,
even just the emptiness of sound at the precipice before the greatest vastest canyons of our earth...
You can’t dare to frame a single one of these without spending every medium you can find.
And now I think I get it:
Art cannot contain the beauty we see and feel,
It is meant to be a crack of a window to the inside of what's real.
Art borrows a pinch of the beauty to show the others a glimpse to awe at,
And if successful, that small crack may bring one into the glory of it all someday.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
"My boy" you told me
"Some will come close to understanding"
But none truly ever will
The pain is a burden
Hurled into being
By a history in which we have no sway
Of elders and ancestors,
common trace
Buried deep in our blood
And The wounds
In an indifferent bandage
You WILL understand in time
That you must be your own shaman
Whisper to your soul the song
That soothes,
The healing touch,
SING OUT
The sorrow that aches,
And make harmony with what you know to be true
And for those that dont understand...
Be patient,
Their wounds not as deep
Their affliction still undetected,
Show them in the light of your broken halo
That good exists within the hollow home of unsettling night,
Only than will you truly understand,
"My boy" you said
None understand, but i do
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC
**☉The sun falls in November☉
☊ And won't rise until February ☊**
It's a sick feeling
◉ Total darkness ◉
⍤The pines whisper their worries⍤
☾ Aligned with the moon's shine ☽
Hungry winter bears
❄ And snow-white hares ❄
◗ Try to escape the night ◖
Being out in
⚇ The Last Frontier ⚇
《 All you hear is your breath 》
It's a quite sound
⌭ Snow-creak ⌭
You're left me out here in the cold
☆ But I decided to put my hopes on the stars ☆
There’s so many
So many that are bright
★ I think the dark ones are my favorite ★
◎ Your soul is a crystal sky ◎
✧ Lit from the North ✧
Dancing to a shifting melody
☪ Only broken out at midnight ☪
Changing your colors
To fit your light between my dark stars
***∬ Wavering ∬
§ Fluctuating §***
⊝ Undetected by most ⊝
␥ But those special few watch from the water ␥
⎊ They’re alone like me ⎊
Soon your shows slows
↡ And you fall asleep with the dawn ↡
⚰ Frozen tongues can’t taste your remains ⚰
∈ Nor can they converse with themselves ∋
My heart was left out in the cold
⚉ And it learned to love Alaska ⚉
⚖ Solitude and freedom go hand-in-hand ⚖
⚔ I'm not afraid of commitments ⚔
⚮ But I'm terrified that my heart won't have what it desires. ⚮
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
They called him The Ghost
He seemed to move practically undetected
Except for the destruction in his wake
Which made the people quake with fear
Whenever they thought he might be near
The people close to the victims shed many a tear
The authorities even shuddered and stuttered
When addressing and dealing with the crimes
Perpetrated by the infamous one referred to
Only as The Ghost
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Stone Love : A Building Named ‘Linearity’.
Unobserved I lay my hand on your limestone wall and feel the rough surface as my fingertips touch the stone slabs and junctures of your construction…
Gently pressing my cheek against your sunlight- warmed, stony skin.
Veiled in concealment, just you and me, right here….
Being with you, so near to me…
No one else but you and me.
In this very special love affair we share together.
Your comforting presence, so mild and so compassionate….
Gazing at the elegance of your architecture with its majestic interplay of razorsharp outline patterns in a merciless contrast with the soft spindrift twilight clouds in all serenity above us….and I feel so protected….
Staring at your powerful black silhouette as it rises up into the sundown skies….
Mesmerized by the grace of golden sunray reflections stunningly glistening, dazzlingly shimmering in your numerous windowpanes as the sun sets unhurriedly, while the mauve, lavender and scarlet clouds make the perfect composition for our undetected wonderful moment….
Oh, ‘Linearity’,…
Your stone wall feels so warm when I think about the coldness of people.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
*The stage has been set
Nature anxiously waits to see
How the Earth intends
To transform a seed into a tree
Cloaked beneath the soil
Hidden far from sight
Strengthened by the rains
Nourished by the light
And perhaps magic does exist
Just undetected to the human eye
Because that tiny little seed
Has now risen to the sky*
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
While most are counting sheep at night
When trying to go to sleep
The poet is searching for words to write
So the little lambs won't weep
The paper becomes the poet's sleeve
As he wipes his pain away
His pen becomes the poet's sword
To keep the wolves at bay
The sheep that cause our eyes to close
Must always be protected
For wolves can sneak into our dreams
Sometimes undetected
The poet writes of the sheep we count
While staring at the clock
Writing words to stop the wolves
From picking off the flock
So when you start to close your eyes
And count the sheep tonight
Remember the poet who slays the wolves
With the words that he will write
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
Don't judge a book by its cover.
It could be hollowed out
In the shape of a gun
To hold one
Undetected
Or
On an old man's bookshelf
Still the hollow shape
Of a gun
Filled with wrapped candy
A stash
Protected from his wife
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
He captains the ship
with a grin
You’re all in
Hoist the sail
Climb the rigging
Settle down in the cabin
Close that door in behind,
You want to go live in
His life, your life, his wife
You say
He scoffs at the crew
But not you
You’re the maiden
He’ll find treasure to hide
In you he’ll confide
And provide
The answers you desired
He knows best
You say
When seas are rough
And he’s had enough
Surrounding ships wreck
All are affected
Once important neglected
It can’t go undetected, surely,
As he undresses you
with his insults
Addresses all your faults
He’s just stressed
You say.
Your attempts to rekindle
Throw you overboard
His words
undercurrents,
that drag you beneath.
Used to swim
Now amongst the weeds
Can’t help but concede
He needs me
You say
You struggle
You had learnt to blow bubbles
But now you’re in trouble
A muddle
Confuddled
That’s typical for you
He says
You plead to be rescued
Lock eyes with the crew
But they’re through
So washed ashore
Bedraggled and torn
He picks you up
Keeps you safe,
Loved
And warm
You say
Dec 2, 2023
Dec 2, 2023 at 3:34 AM UTC
I was born to be forgotten
Swept under the rug
I wasn't meant to be anything exceptional
Just average
As I grew older
The teachers saw potential
The ability to pick up things quickly
And never yell, scream, or back-talk
I am shy
I never talk unless talked to
Which leads people to think
I don't exist
People push past me in a hallway
No acknowledging my existence
And I wonder
Do I exist?
Some people don't realize I'm in their grade
I slip by undetected
Without a glance
Without a word
I was born to be misplaced
And when you are born a certain way
It seems that fate doesn't let you change
So I will forever be
Forgotten
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
I recall hearing that term once in high school,
"Urban forestry", a paradox, seemingly and yet,
That is exactly what it is.
Strips of land sanction to be aesthetically pleasing.
For whom, I have not a clue.
I would have preferred a lane or so,
Over the regular 8' by 1' square of trimmed trees.
I also grimace within the grace
Of those knotted furled fists toward a sky asking WHY!?
After a much calmer gardener had pondered the same word
Underneath his humming chainsaw
(Though probably for a more debatable material world)
Amongst other cuboid amputations.
Not to mention those solid soldiers
Whose attention is really standing dead in plain sight until
Wrinkled pavement is not enough ground to hold.
Then our hero makes local news in an inhumane, absolutely atrocious,
Final act of trespassing, vandalism, homicide, and suicide.
Of course nobody saw it coming.
Undetected and decayed for half a decade.
With so so many Ys it is easier to yelp for for those Xs
Crossing against our assumed perfect grids and parallels
To those stories of stacking passed from older cries
For HELP! Though those did not settle quite so well
So I proceed passing over a particularly loud leaf
Amidst this dry pondering
And snap out of the whats and whys and wheres
To take another look around at my illustrious
Urban Forest.
Unto a more practical pensive test,
Which side of that phrase,
Burdens the winning emphasis?
Well, still warblers and sparrows to inspire a song
For how this within time shall also pass along.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:48 AM UTC
Constantly dipping through gray and black
Wraith like and silent, slipping through undetected
I, Captain Shadow, stand guard at the wheel
Inky hair liquid alive around my shoulders
Whispers back and forth through the mist
Shady Lady glides easily through calm waters
No light penetrates her hull
***** and women a plenty to plunder
But it's knowledge this captain seeks
Traveling the world over for barnacled secrets
Treasures that spark the mind and illuminate the darkness
A bottle of rot gut fits comfortably in my rough hands
Reinforcing sailor's spines grown weary
They all said a woman belonged on land
I ****** in their ale cups
Jumped my rails and set sail
A cold fire in my heart
Weaving through shadows into the night
Come play in the dark
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
Amidst all the hustle and bustle of the biggest city in the world.
Amidst all the turmoil of rooms being booked to make the most efficient use of time and space.
This place got overlooked.
I'm in an empty classroom,
Alone.
The empty chairs,
A quiet reminder,
This place is used to more.
But I'm in an empty classroom,
And my thoughts are my own.
I feel illicit.
And excited.
And inspired.
I feel like becoming, the people I admire.
The space is defiantly alive,
There's new stacks of papers each night.
I feel in touch with the beauty of society,
But safe from its vice.
I barricade myself behind battlements of books.
My presence will almost certainly go undetected,
No one will notice the slight shift in the desks and chairs.
But I feel connected.
There is a shared spirit, that lives in the air.
I breath in the ghosts of the day time,
Their raucous noise nothing but a whisper, now.
I don't dislike those ghosts,
I'm just thankful for this time to play alone with the possibility
Of creation.
Away from idle chitterlings.
Their whispering ghosts make me relish this stolen time all the more.
I've got until the sun sinks, sinks, sinks into the deep dark.
I've got a candle, I've got my heart.
until sunrise.
And hopefully someday,
someone will feel,
In the midst of their new delight
The spirit of
the ghost of night.
I'm in an empty class,
Alone,
In the spaces left over,
I feel at home.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
Words
Are the bridges between bodies
Piled atop pillars of patience and pain
Crafted from countless islands in the sea,
As bodies spoke for themselves—
In the grunt of disapproval,
In the violent gesture of rage.
Words
Are also highways into hearts
Into the icy crevices in your chest
Which burn with a boiling intensity
At the beautiful phrases that melt the hearts
That once hardened with rage
At the fluttering phrases of falsity
And the counting down to silence.
Words
Tunnel to the mind
Sneak in undetected, disguised as beggars,
Merchants of ideas, and not thieves
Of self-esteem and self-love.
Words
Tunnel through the walls,
Baring steel and fire
Hidden beneath cloaks
And beautiful illusions
Which inflamed your heart and
Bridged the space between you
While you lay awake
Adrift at sea.
Words
Form sentences
Which create paragraphs
Infinite arrangements of ideas and meaning
But sometimes
In the silence following submission
To sadness or grief
Words begin to mean
Absolutely nothing
In this vast and empty sea.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
Virginia Nicholson
How To Build A House In N-Dimensions
1. Begin with lines, pencil to paper (if they could exist) drawing graphite arrangements, N-space reduced to one, a structure viewed in slices. Imagine the bathroom off the foyer, the den off the dining room, viewable only as inked lines, dit-dit-dah, a contractor’s Morse Code.
2. Progress to carpet squares, linoleum tiles, the coral paint pairs well with the eggshell trim. Dit-dah-dit becomes something useful to the non-contractor, “door” or “Master Bedroom” or “x hundred feet of pipe.” Envision the imagined patterns hidden in the bathroom floor, the kitchen hardwood.
3. Move to volumes, solids, conic sections, height. One story, two stories, a basement, an attic?, take advantage of the introduction of 3D. Upgrade the closet to walk-in, needs more carpet squares. A snapshot of a family barbeque, Charlie’s height 1D penciled in to the 3D door, marring 2D eggshell paint.
4. Adding time, the house is built, ages, gets sold to new families with little Charlies of their own, new markings on the cupboard door, 3-foot-2, 3-foot-5, 4-foot-9. Grass fades from Kelly to sand to Kelly, saturation a cosine function with respect to time. The Zoysia starts in one, breaking ground in two, growing in three, a well-manicured 4D experience.
5-11. Include the things invisible to us, objects on the order of 1 meter, orders of 10E-2 to 10E9 seconds. Five to eleven drip through leaky pipes, seep through porous flooring, get lost in iron-rich soil and oxygenated exhalations. Five to eleven stay hidden, wrapped up in Calabi-Yao manifolds smaller than graphite hills and valleys marking little Charlie’s height, stronger than the 2-by-4s and stone foundation keeping strong in 4D. Five to eleven circulate undetected, seven dimensions shrunk to sub-pinpoint size, keeping seven dimensions of unexplainables covered until their traces are seen in the blades of Zoysia.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
it lurks in a whisper
in the biting of cold breeze
it is tauntingly hollow
and fills me with unease
creeping, crawling, undetected
because of it's sly nature
sometimes i can make it go,
but it only comes back later
voices screaming in my head
"you're nothing" and it's true...
you'll never ever understand
because it hasn't happened to you
it will not be much longer
i soon will be at ease
but the stinging pain will persevere
in the biting of cold breeze.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC