"undoings" poems - Hello Poetry

When your mouth moves I remember what it felt like as I rushed to flip a page and sliced my hand on the edge of words. Every syllable you murmur in my ear stings salt-lick strong. I am four again. I will not breathe until you untangle me slowly from you, from your own undoings that have become the paper wrappings around the bird-cage of my heart.

0

Feb 14, 2010

Feb 14, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC

m-pence-1

Undoings

When your mouth moves I remember what it felt like as I rushed to flip a page and sliced my hand on the edge of words. Every syllable you murmur in my ear stings salt-lick strong. I am four again. I will not breathe until you untangle me slowly from you, from your own undoings that have become the paper wrappings around the bird-cage of my heart.

10

It's a space within a space, where all are transparent...i am myself. On two layers of shelves on a wall, a dictionary and a thesaurus, share space with what seems like an heirloom of books, old and new: Gibran, Dylan Thomas, Dickinson, Bronte, P. B. Shelley, Jane Eyre, Hosseini, few Ludlum oldies, etc... Here, a blending of the tangible and the intangible is present, like habits and thoughts that don't, and can't die, stuffs that've endured the years: old unposted poems with scribbled notes, faded photos in sepia...faded jeans; a bed that awaits fatigued body and mind on toxic days, and becomes a desk to write on...when needed. It's not as though nothing's awry, imperfections are seen by the eyes, some details may not be precise in this accepted clutter of daily goings- on...of feelings...of some undoings that interrupt and are mingling with enigmas flashing up the ceiling; lost shoe-laces wander, and go hiding among indispensable habits and things, kept...retained, like a hanging purse, grabbed, when a sudden trip occurs. It's hot and cold in this ***** place, it's cozy, my neatly-cluttered space. sally b Rosalia Rosrio A. Bayan March 24, 2022

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Mar 24, 2022

Mar 24, 2022 at 7:27 AM UTC

sally-a-bayan

Space

It's a space within a space, where all are transparent...i am myself. On two layers of shelves on a wall, a dictionary and a thesaurus, share space with what seems like an heirloom of books, old and new: Gibran, Dylan Thomas, Dickinson, Bronte, P. B. Shelley, Jane Eyre, Hosseini, few Ludlum oldies, etc... Here, a blending of the tangible and the intangible is present, like habits and thoughts that don't, and can't die, stuffs that've endured the years: old unposted poems with scribbled notes, faded photos in sepia...faded jeans; a bed that awaits fatigued body and mind on toxic days, and becomes a desk to write on...when needed. It's not as though nothing's awry, imperfections are seen by the eyes, some details may not be precise in this accepted clutter of daily goings- on...of feelings...of some undoings that interrupt and are mingling with enigmas flashing up the ceiling; lost shoe-laces wander, and go hiding among indispensable habits and things, kept...retained, like a hanging purse, grabbed, when a sudden trip occurs. It's hot and cold in this ***** place, it's cozy, my neatly-cluttered space. sally b Rosalia Rosrio A. Bayan March 24, 2022

34

the promise-laden air of 3am lies stifling, stilled and sad upon those who whisper into it the darkest hopes and fears of man the grass sways at any hour -- wind breathes alike under moonlit skies as through baby blue air; yet only one can burn my mind unholy sit the grinning stars who know my secrets and desperation, the howling wolf that breathes, bites in my chest, only in night's nation why only under the sleeping haze can I admit that the daylight burns can I pour out my soul and own the emptiness that swallows me in return hushed tones and hushed hours carry a safety: there my undoings are released content at 3am -- 3pm holds my tongue I drown in what lies underneath my brittle hair holds my secrets cracked teeth and skin contain my lies shaking legs carry me until night's comfort and the devil sits behind my eyes © Tara India.

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Mar 20, 2014

Mar 20, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC

tara-india

faithless hours

the promise-laden air of 3am lies stifling, stilled and sad upon those who whisper into it the darkest hopes and fears of man the grass sways at any hour -- wind breathes alike under moonlit skies as through baby blue air; yet only one can burn my mind unholy sit the grinning stars who know my secrets and desperation, the howling wolf that breathes, bites in my chest, only in night's nation why only under the sleeping haze can I admit that the daylight burns can I pour out my soul and own the emptiness that swallows me in return hushed tones and hushed hours carry a safety: there my undoings are released content at 3am -- 3pm holds my tongue I drown in what lies underneath my brittle hair holds my secrets cracked teeth and skin contain my lies shaking legs carry me until night's comfort and the devil sits behind my eyes © Tara India.

25

what could empty you? in the weight of our divines the un thinking deep within us strokes of pure spirit our fleeting fall labour — the early war; original sin in between the earth and sky is the shade of the galaxy why limit sorrow? why blank the source? conquered, we go on and put life first ignore the remnant artifacts merciless undoings turned pools, nudge of time ordinary notes of care unleashed poisons etched into skin history’s suitor to time, shards, debris remember remember remember the blank silence echoing days go on, fewer, sleep escaping crying out it was a home. cursed nights into mornings, who can make of this? what once was theirs, whatever is left? emptied, murdered, obliterated an annihilation of the ego the anguish, the anguish eyes still seeing last touch feeling ancient alone abandoned what is a year a month a decade but a moment? —lost and burned futile devices, fervour’s writing mailed to the void and the sea? the sea? the saltwater dead, my love, the saltwater dead the last great epitaph of our love: i am nobody i am nobody and you are gone oh, August, a season deceased, tell me again the hieroglyph of your name

0

Sep 11, 2018

Sep 11, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC

karadpetrovic

the last ten days of august.

what could empty you? in the weight of our divines the un thinking deep within us strokes of pure spirit our fleeting fall labour — the early war; original sin in between the earth and sky is the shade of the galaxy why limit sorrow? why blank the source? conquered, we go on and put life first ignore the remnant artifacts merciless undoings turned pools, nudge of time ordinary notes of care unleashed poisons etched into skin history’s suitor to time, shards, debris remember remember remember the blank silence echoing days go on, fewer, sleep escaping crying out it was a home. cursed nights into mornings, who can make of this? what once was theirs, whatever is left? emptied, murdered, obliterated an annihilation of the ego the anguish, the anguish eyes still seeing last touch feeling ancient alone abandoned what is a year a month a decade but a moment? —lost and burned futile devices, fervour’s writing mailed to the void and the sea? the sea? the saltwater dead, my love, the saltwater dead the last great epitaph of our love: i am nobody i am nobody and you are gone oh, August, a season deceased, tell me again the hieroglyph of your name

70

He write in bread crumbs, trails of clues that will not be found because the birds have eaten them. Fleeting, unremarkable, but it feeds and feeds and fills empty stomach. Unfulfilling but full. ( Most of the days that is so much better than being hollow) Over the years, the forest grows. Grasses mold it self into canopies, rooftops that shields him from the light. A darkness that blinds but pulsing with warmth. Branches twisting towards each other, entangled in each other stories. 'write better' they whispers. Flowers will not blooms but the sweet smell of honeycombs wafts through the air like hunger. ( we are hungry and hungry and lonely tell us stories, tell us more more more more please moremoreore-) So the path to home become unrecognizable. Intangible, flickering as if it wanted to be real. He feels kin ship down to his bones and whimpers fall out from his mouth, quivers but does not fold. He curled but life would not, will not let him bend. What should a man do if he cannot curve, cannot bow and break? They all said that to achieve greatness, he have to taste 'broken' on his tongue. Ripe to the point of decaying, fingers sticky with black honey. He let his teeth chatters, secrets flew out of his mouth like love letters. Carved into him self are the promises made by breakers and yet, honesty is what he sounds like. A forest is an illusion, they say. Wrap your perception until everything look the same and there is only doubt in your self. ( After all everything have to protect their heart) Peeling barks, bleeds. He bit his lip, wounds are his lovers but everyone knows that love is treacherous. There is a little boy and a man. There is Him, the one who only grows and feeds but never fulfills. 'Isn't that enough?',he asked. This was what you sow into me, you make me grow into a man but not a human. So he becomes, forest isn't the only thing that can burn. ( How do you escape your self?) This is a mirror house, a forest where every trees are your thoughts, their roots are your beliefs, and their seeds are your doing. (most of the times, it become your own undoings) You reap what you sow, but what if you are the one who was sowed. -nabs

0

Oct 18, 2017

Oct 18, 2017 at 11:58 PM UTC

ByNabs

tuesday

He write in bread crumbs, trails of clues that will not be found because the birds have eaten them. Fleeting, unremarkable, but it feeds and feeds and fills empty stomach. Unfulfilling but full. ( Most of the days that is so much better than being hollow) Over the years, the forest grows. Grasses mold it self into canopies, rooftops that shields him from the light. A darkness that blinds but pulsing with warmth. Branches twisting towards each other, entangled in each other stories. 'write better' they whispers. Flowers will not blooms but the sweet smell of honeycombs wafts through the air like hunger. ( we are hungry and hungry and lonely tell us stories, tell us more more more more please moremoreore-) So the path to home become unrecognizable. Intangible, flickering as if it wanted to be real. He feels kin ship down to his bones and whimpers fall out from his mouth, quivers but does not fold. He curled but life would not, will not let him bend. What should a man do if he cannot curve, cannot bow and break? They all said that to achieve greatness, he have to taste 'broken' on his tongue. Ripe to the point of decaying, fingers sticky with black honey. He let his teeth chatters, secrets flew out of his mouth like love letters. Carved into him self are the promises made by breakers and yet, honesty is what he sounds like. A forest is an illusion, they say. Wrap your perception until everything look the same and there is only doubt in your self. ( After all everything have to protect their heart) Peeling barks, bleeds. He bit his lip, wounds are his lovers but everyone knows that love is treacherous. There is a little boy and a man. There is Him, the one who only grows and feeds but never fulfills. 'Isn't that enough?',he asked. This was what you sow into me, you make me grow into a man but not a human. So he becomes, forest isn't the only thing that can burn. ( How do you escape your self?) This is a mirror house, a forest where every trees are your thoughts, their roots are your beliefs, and their seeds are your doing. (most of the times, it become your own undoings) You reap what you sow, but what if you are the one who was sowed. -nabs

21

He sits on the edge of the world unconcerned with the dissimulation of polite society busy little bee's bouncing off reality living the dream he so valiantly fought to protect he sits there quietly saturated in ***** manufactured of white port fueled by memory of war contemplating nothing invisible to most but still a blight upon their sensibilities and a horrid fright to the eyes when seen cold hungry and shivering they could give a **** to his welfare they cogitate his insanity his own undoings and that smell the smell of death lurking waiting to pounce on yet another of society's outcast putrid sores covers flesh uncovered where gnats and flies feast and maggots dine beneath the skin and his breath his breath smells of Dragon Blood do we even know what Dragon Blood is? apparently he does two tours in Vietnam an a Purple Heart for bravery yet he sits on the edge of the world bravely trampled underfoot of apathy absent of coalition he wishes only to be left alone to dance in the pain of degredation and waltz in the face of death until God calls him to reckoning he will sit there on the edge of the world listening to the mundane idiocrasy of those who wander by left to his own maundering invisible that is until the olympics come to town

0

Aug 4, 2016

Aug 4, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC

odonko-ba

Dragon Blood

He sits on the edge of the world unconcerned with the dissimulation of polite society busy little bee's bouncing off reality living the dream he so valiantly fought to protect he sits there quietly saturated in ***** manufactured of white port fueled by memory of war contemplating nothing invisible to most but still a blight upon their sensibilities and a horrid fright to the eyes when seen cold hungry and shivering they could give a **** to his welfare they cogitate his insanity his own undoings and that smell the smell of death lurking waiting to pounce on yet another of society's outcast putrid sores covers flesh uncovered where gnats and flies feast and maggots dine beneath the skin and his breath his breath smells of Dragon Blood do we even know what Dragon Blood is? apparently he does two tours in Vietnam an a Purple Heart for bravery yet he sits on the edge of the world bravely trampled underfoot of apathy absent of coalition he wishes only to be left alone to dance in the pain of degredation and waltz in the face of death until God calls him to reckoning he will sit there on the edge of the world listening to the mundane idiocrasy of those who wander by left to his own maundering invisible that is until the olympics come to town

49

I need lies For I am sick of the truths Untold revelations revealing indication. To be told As the leaves fall. That one is up, Instead of down. Would you feel as though You’ve been lied to, prayed victim, insulted Made a fool of your own. Devices, trivialities, trinkets, and goodies O deities keep us occupied, with times undone Encompass us with stars of our lights And reveal our destinies, and shape our futures Lie to us in fashions, stones that tell the wrong And foretell undoings, wrong-ings and corruption Hang your false pretenses out, to dry and fade Bind us in iron cuffs, braces, shackles Tell us not the truths of the world But the lies of your lives.

0

May 1, 2014

May 1, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC

mitchell-s-bartlett

Gods Of Us All

I need lies For I am sick of the truths Untold revelations revealing indication. To be told As the leaves fall. That one is up, Instead of down. Would you feel as though You’ve been lied to, prayed victim, insulted Made a fool of your own. Devices, trivialities, trinkets, and goodies O deities keep us occupied, with times undone Encompass us with stars of our lights And reveal our destinies, and shape our futures Lie to us in fashions, stones that tell the wrong And foretell undoings, wrong-ings and corruption Hang your false pretenses out, to dry and fade Bind us in iron cuffs, braces, shackles Tell us not the truths of the world But the lies of your lives.

19

Often we find ourselves perplexed by an emotion. Being unaware of why, can't do much other than compound this negative situation. There are three steps one should take: Examination Acknowledgement Acceptance Through this process a much more accurate feeling is developed, one with clarity that can provide an insight followed by a compelling sense of direction, or action. See, this is the tricky part. The first three steps and the result are an entirely internal process, which alone in itself bears no fruit. They are the undoings of the latches on the door, now one must take the first step out of it.

0

Dec 28, 2014

Dec 28, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC

LongdistAnce

The Door

Often we find ourselves perplexed by an emotion. Being unaware of why, can't do much other than compound this negative situation. There are three steps one should take: Examination Acknowledgement Acceptance Through this process a much more accurate feeling is developed, one with clarity that can provide an insight followed by a compelling sense of direction, or action. See, this is the tricky part. The first three steps and the result are an entirely internal process, which alone in itself bears no fruit. They are the undoings of the latches on the door, now one must take the first step out of it.

5

I don't need your help I am me, and you are you I am in conflict, don't inflict I don't need your help help just ruins, more undoings help will hamper, go scamper. We can help We are here for you and you We shall assist, don't resist We can help help shows us our weaknesses, we aren't geniuses help reminds us that we aren't superhuman, we are only human.

0

Oct 19, 2017

Oct 19, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC

mahinhin

Helpless or Helpful?

I don't need your help I am me, and you are you I am in conflict, don't inflict I don't need your help help just ruins, more undoings help will hamper, go scamper. We can help We are here for you and you We shall assist, don't resist We can help help shows us our weaknesses, we aren't geniuses help reminds us that we aren't superhuman, we are only human.

12

Don't take me for granted cause I may let you fall may let your undoings consume you. Don't ignore that I might be losing patience cause I may just let go And watch you stagger to keep your balance. Don't acknowledge I'm there and then keep going Cause I may just ignore your presence completely Don't expect me to turn around to wave good bye Cause no Goodbye is worth saying or waving Don't forget that I can leave it all behind And never Not once Not even a twitch of my neck look back

0

Apr 11, 2013

Apr 11, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC

francisco-dh

Don't

Don't take me for granted cause I may let you fall may let your undoings consume you. Don't ignore that I might be losing patience cause I may just let go And watch you stagger to keep your balance. Don't acknowledge I'm there and then keep going Cause I may just ignore your presence completely Don't expect me to turn around to wave good bye Cause no Goodbye is worth saying or waving Don't forget that I can leave it all behind And never Not once Not even a twitch of my neck look back

13

The museum captures still life sculpted with slender ideology masked by the movement of diamonds neither the sun nor moon could shield her from the nature of desire. she moves in her own way. Art eclectic like that of floating stairs... b u o u a n c y like her very own becoming and circular patterns mimic constant contemplation of undoings. She takes steps toward a painting of her own. An almost perfect frame, she sits under the tree to pray. Sinking into a state of multitudes, she buries her very own diamonds in the heart of the earth forever.

0

Feb 10, 2021

Feb 10, 2021 at 1:42 AM UTC

bykarleigh

the art of diamonds

The museum captures still life sculpted with slender ideology masked by the movement of diamonds neither the sun nor moon could shield her from the nature of desire. she moves in her own way. Art eclectic like that of floating stairs... b u o u a n c y like her very own becoming and circular patterns mimic constant contemplation of undoings. She takes steps toward a painting of her own. An almost perfect frame, she sits under the tree to pray. Sinking into a state of multitudes, she buries her very own diamonds in the heart of the earth forever.

29

A life without you Lord has no meaning. Before you oh God I stand in full surrender. Completely overwhelmed my desires. Delivery me from my own desires. Envelope my being with your Holy fire. Fill my heart with love overflowing. Give me the gift of decrement and understanding. Hide me in thy precious wounds so by thy side I shall remain. In you I find Fulfillment. Jesus my Love and my Lord. Keep me burning in love for you my God. Lead me to thy Holy river. Make me thine forever. No man can comprehend your blazing glory. Oh God my eternal Father. Parise be to thee forever. Quakes and Stroms resounds your majestic power. Receive my unending worship my king and master. Save me from my wayward undoings. Teach me thy holy wordings. Use me as thy unworthy instrument. Victory belong to you mighty warrior! Wash me free from every evil. Xerospheres becomes streams in your holy precense. You reign on high in unfading grandeur. Zion forever proclaims your glorious slendur.

0

Jan 2, 2025

Jan 2, 2025 at 12:49 PM UTC

Empty_verses24

Abecedarian of praise

A life without you Lord has no meaning. Before you oh God I stand in full surrender. Completely overwhelmed my desires. Delivery me from my own desires. Envelope my being with your Holy fire. Fill my heart with love overflowing. Give me the gift of decrement and understanding. Hide me in thy precious wounds so by thy side I shall remain. In you I find Fulfillment. Jesus my Love and my Lord. Keep me burning in love for you my God. Lead me to thy Holy river. Make me thine forever. No man can comprehend your blazing glory. Oh God my eternal Father. Parise be to thee forever. Quakes and Stroms resounds your majestic power. Receive my unending worship my king and master. Save me from my wayward undoings. Teach me thy holy wordings. Use me as thy unworthy instrument. Victory belong to you mighty warrior! Wash me free from every evil. Xerospheres becomes streams in your holy precense. You reign on high in unfading grandeur. Zion forever proclaims your glorious slendur.

26