"unevenness" poems
The quiet shuffle of
Those two people in the hall.
The sound of the chalk pieces falling
As my teacher grinds it
Into the board.
The shouting of the man teaching next door.
The ruffling of papers when my teacher tells us to take one out.
The jangling of keys out in the hall.
The clicking of calculator keys
(Even though I'm in Chemistry).
The squeaking of various doors.
The three people who all just cleared their throats
At the same time.
The unevenness of the bell tones
(One's a concert A).
The flower resting in it's
Bunsen burner vase.
I love being an
Introvert
And noticing.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
The loneliness permeate down into the toes, walking along the sidewalk
The streets seem empty, vacant faces, hurried bodies avoiding the solace of a simple hello, their trifling stares stabbing at their incompleteness
Write pain only because the voice cannot verbalize it. We don't understand it. We don't want to
Trifling affairs taking us up, consuming us, completing us, then draining us
Walking life avoiding others, their daring greetings, their trifling
They, too, walk along the sidewalks and the gutters, getting tripped up on their own despairs Listen not to Dante's doom, that abandonment is futile
Futile fallacies, our trifling forays, our misfortunes
Street along, you masses, you unforgettable, delving into yourselves, forgetting
You cannot understand it, those trifling friendships
How do they compare to the miseries you trudge through, swamped in that which hold you back, slows you down, drowns you, chokes you
Your only connect is the carelessness of your incompleteness, contagious of complaints
That cracked sidewalk, tripping you up in its unevenness
Your shoes have rubbed out their souls, toes slamming their unending pressures
You feel defeated and oppressed. Yet you walk on
Why do you not just stop and rest? The lonely road does not end, it continues on and on unceasingly, its seasons one big blur
Year in and year out your days numbered as nothing but trifling affairs, your greetings to fellow walkers rare as encouragement from within. You have become swollen in refusing refuge from those that share that uncaring sidewalk
You balk at accepting a hand to take that lonely walk with you, it is just another pair of loneliness who seeks companionship, who only seeks to cease their own trifling affairs
Lend not your own complaints, but console and be consoled in the greeting of a walk together
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
Counterpart opposite
and depleted by measures of time.
Time no longer counted upon
And its hands that measures the distance
All
one, two, three
of
them
Watches closely with intuition
as
the
minutes
go
bye.
Resolute is absent and the balance of His nature
Is unstable.
Both have grown feeble, lacking interest.
Burdened down by the weight of unevenness
Absalom has risen above the absence of the absolute
leading to a labyrinth.
.
Mystified by the maze,
He
Sits,
counting backwards,
rotating on an unhinged alignment,
expounding the injury of His inventiveness.
In another dimension of Himself, all one, two, three of them
Helios is staggered as Cupid, The God of Dark Love’s
Bow
is broken.
Now
His
equilibrium
is
faltered by the parallels between its thoughts.
Wanting love’s incarceration corrupted no more
He teeters on a stool in attempt to reverse suicide
yet the ensuing ideology of procrastination’s pride
has detoured His dilemma
However in their misfortune,
Love,
hoping to be reincarnate into another lifetime, dissolves in its delusion.
Time, in its barrenness discreetly measures the depletion and void,
and
the hands
all one, two, three of Him sits opposite
Being His
Counter in
Part
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
My heart,
Is a jigsaw puzzle composed of
Pieces of souvenirs from wherever
Life has taken me
Sunny mounts of happiness,
Dark troughs of gloom,
Blind alleys of secret memories
Punched out remains
Of the parts that I gifted to
Those special few
Uneven buds added on
To the surface, because some gave me
Pieces of their hearts too
Marks of where it was trodden on,
Scars that show its
Brave, healed face
With pins of guilt and remorse
Studding it in memory of how
It also became the cause of others' pain
That's my heart. Not so pretty,
Not perfect, not pure,
Yet it sits in my chest, beating away
Patiently, as if entirely sure
That any moment, its wait will end
Of someone who'll admiringly
Imbibe all of its stories,
Ease away all the tense knots,
View in awe all its glories
And let its inadequacies depart,
Completing them with closeness-
Smoothening their unevenness-
By merging with them,
Heart to heart
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
somewhere over two packs a day
budget smokes
tobacco and chemicals swept up off the plant floor
combines with well over one thousand gallons of Jim Beam
hate-fest on the liver and lungs –
from under twenty the ******* and LSD
sherm’s with the break dancers
in the Frisco Bay
years of **** abuse
both via the nose,
and also from a foil tube
………….
and then the ****** –
50 plus years old in an emergency room
looking at pictures
of 10% heart function
fuzzy, grainy, distorted,
and true…
major life changes ensue
through with smoking and eating garbage
afraid of road rage
and defibrillation
sitting in a basement
thinking about my cannabis oil
and a November trip to Colorado. –
phone calls to friends expressing a new version
telling the youth the lifestyle isn’t always the way
living fast and dying young
doesn’t always work
rarely leaves a pretty corpse
and won’t make you any more of a badass….
to live one’s life to the fullest
each and every day
with no consideration for the outcome
sometimes has you looking at pictures
of healthy lungs
plaque free arteries
a clean liver
and only 10% heart function –
Images I have never seen
waltz through my mind
slowly turning and moving to and fro
one, two, three
one, two, three
the rhythm matching the unevenness
of his most important muscle
I sit quietly on the edge of my bed
thinking over a lifetime and my best dear friend
I hope we make it to November. –
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
it'd be a luxury to forget you
the depth of your callouses
the unevenness of your smile
the smoke on your breathe
those wooden coffee tables
carved with our dreams
in sickness and in health
we embraced it all.
it'd be a luxury to forget you
that constant burn like nicotine
that hot fire on your lips
driven by desire and passion
your strength to push me away
your eyes to draw me in
penniless and not worried
in our arms, we had it all.
it'd be a luxury to forget you
black sunglasses, fedora hats and all
your swift, careless motions
slow and tedious habits
a weakness for women
and their weakness for you
to have and to hold you
we knew, we could have it all.
it'd be a luxury to forget you
crumble those old photos
pour gas on those memories
tear that plane ticket in half
reach in and crush my heart
dagger first, scramble my brain
from this day forward
until death do us part, we'll remember it all.
it'd be a luxury to forget you,
one that i do not have.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
1. write out your stream of consciousness, your every thought. explicitly and unedited with every little detail. don't scratch anything out, don't think twice. read it, reread it, read it out loud and feel embarrassed or ashamed. resist the urge to tear it up and forget it ever happened. save it for another day. hide it where no one else can find it because that's the part of you no one deserves to see.
2. take off all of your clothes and stand in front of a mirror. become aware of every detail, every mole, freckle, birthmark. trace every curve and crevice. pinch and poke and drag your fingers along while you follow the trail of sensations. look at yourself again. notice the little flaws. the crooked part of your smile, the unevenness of your skin, the way your face is not perfectly symmetrical. look in the mirror and see what you don't want to see. embrace yourself.
3. turn off every electronic device, every distraction from the world or connection to the world. lay in bed. wrap yourself up in blankets. focus on your breathing. don't think about anything else. you can almost do it. clear your mind. but the monsters always find a way. lean on them. don't fight the nightmares. find comfort in it, somehow, because what other way is there.
4. go for a run and watch the world changing in front of you. look at the sky. are there any clouds? are there any stars? feel the impact of the ground hitting your feet. feel your weight, your every pound and gravity pushing you down. feel your lightness when the breeze hits and you think you're going to wither away. why are you running? what are you running from? don't look back.
5. fall in love with the wrong person and follow them. then what.
6. get in your car and fill up your tank and find a highway and drive. put on some music and sing the wrong lyrics and sing them loud. turn off the music and listen to all the people in the world trying to be somewhere else.
7. pack up everything in a suitcase. everything is subjective. leave behind anything you don't want in this new life. walk around in circles. think about leaving think about starting over think about a clean slate. then stop and look at where you are and unpack your things and put them back where they belong.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
A prayer is just a cry of becoming human
A cry is just a scream
Of a frightening belief.
And how do we remember how to speak in tongues,
And to flow through moving tunnels
While molding the body to fit something else-
A pattern not yet seen?
Being silent doesn't stop
Others from knowing your unquiet thoughts;
We are more alike
Than we will ever be different.
Just save the last breath for god,
Who pardons all your conscious confusion.
That last, most brilliant light you'll never see
Is only a brain being consumed
By the entrophy of existence.
The stars are well-lit cemeteries
Of illumined souls, that went forgotten once
In the unevenness between the boundaries
Of time, space and heaven.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
I feel the bumps on my skin echo underneath my fingertips
I try to resist the urge to peel my face off
To pour blood onto the floor as I become who I believe
But at what cost?
To become an unknown version of myself seems beautiful at times, concerning at most
When I am sober, alone with my thoughts, I thank my skin for existing
With its bumps, bruises, unevenness, and lines
It was made for me
Stretched for my hips, stretched for my being, reminding me that I take up space.
And space is okay.
And it is all around us.
And it is infinite.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 10:25 PM UTC
Days sometimes blind me like hotel rooms-
all stuffy air heating over zesty grey radiators,
I want to lift the blinds; I already see the light shading through.
That’s not enough; I want to feel orange again,
play with the sunning glow as it re-imagines beauty in skins devilish pores.
I want August’s comfort in afternoon naked towel naps
dreaming that cable dishes are just fish carcasses in the wind,
imagine its possible to watch nails grow,
bed them in earth’s soil, and let it remind me of ***
and the unevenness of intimacy strewn oddly when ***** sweaty limbs
can not keep up with eyes that dart faster than the sway, stay of pendulum pressure.
I want to remind myself that everything exists in contexts
casting emotion on stripped layers, crusts of being.
So I invite my nearest tempest, maybe that moon soft roof
to captain ships of candy shoppe imagination over my starving anxiety
and chalk them out on cemented buildings. I talk to myself loudly.
I tell myself, isn’t it funny when words become tools of composition?
But its ironic because I weigh them with as much suspicion as a glass of milk –
I hesitate to think I ever really have to question anything,
when really, quite possibly, anything is possible
in a sentence pure and ending.
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
the once familiar
is no more
stumbling through
days
of unevenness
tripping over
invisible curbs
and taking a wild ride
on steady ground
the obvious
is unrecognizable
the comfortable
is foreign
the start of each day
presents new obstacles
and i feel like a new born
wet
soft
pliable
not the hardened shell
i've grown used to
this newness
i can't absorb
but i will try
and i will start over
each new day
embracing the obstacles
that offer me
new hope.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
when they first saw you
did they see the unevenness in your smile
did they see how you push your hair back
and how you sometimes purse your lips before you talked
did they notice how it's so easy to see that you are thinking
like the thoughts are moving around in the air
you can feel, but not see
I would've seen it if it were me
but I'm not around anymore
that time has come and past
and I wait to find someone who will notice
things like these about myself
someone who will notice things I never knew before
you used to do that,
but you're not around anymore
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
I am deeply moved by the sway
Of your silhouette dancing
Undulating under the influence of first light
When blood is fissured in the sky
And rush from the fleeting bliss
Permeates the unevenness of your skin
As it touches mine
Our minds forged from chaos
Burning deep into the surreal
Where it shudders under
The whims of the dauntless heart
Where echoes of the lost souls screaming
Wanes into lowly cackles of new men
Slowly fading like ripples on the water
Ebbing and flowing into the white horizon
Alas, alas! the hour's at hand
The night had parted and the sun has come!
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
I died today
Not in a violent way.
I gave up, I decided it was time to quit
“Oh man, I’m just tired of this ********
Moving forward has become a chore
Everything I once enjoyed is now just a bore.
I’ll lay in my bed from morning till night.
Staring at the ceiling with no lights.
Memorizing the cracks and the blemishes
The unevenness of the paint and plaster
A monochrome filter over what once was beautiful.
I’ve lost my talents and now I’m completely unuseable.
I see no more hope, I see no redemption
I am ready to choke, until my end in damnation.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
What do you see when you look my way?
Do you see me, or do you see something else?
Do you see all the imperfections I possess?
These imperfections make me feel less.
Like the shell of a girl in a picture frame.
Do you see what I see in the mirror looking back at me?
A body, all deformed but shapely; this body has had two beautiful babies.
What do you see when you look at my face?
Do you see the unevenness of my eyebrows and the squint in my left eye?
Maybe there are enough glasses for it to hide behind.
Do you see the freckles splattered on my face?
The sun hasn't been gentle on this aging face.
What do you see when you look at me?
Do you see my darkened eyes, so deep and dark that the colors almost don't shine?
Do you see this hair? It's starting to thin with little strands of gray.
What do you see when you look at this aging woman who is almost forty years old?
Maybe…me?
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 9:44 PM UTC
Howls of foxes or Deafening silence,No matter to the graveyard
You or me,The soil loves none
The plain lines appear Ugly,
Can't allure you
Thus
While I was becoming empty
This entire world,Encroached into me
Thus,While I was becoming empty
Your love engulfed me
Then,O!human
As I eye,On the ****** Of our human race
I found the deviation and crookedness
And the dreadful unevenness
Which animates
the sleeping sensitiveness
To nourish the humanity
Need to flare up the struggle
For this only dear
For you only humanity
I still alive on this earth.
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 2:24 AM UTC
i read an article on the asymmetrical nature
of internal organs including, but not limited to
the nature of the heart
and how the body folds in over itself so
many times as it forms.
how outwardly being able
to sense things on both side of the body is crucial, so
we are to have two legs, two arms, two ears, two eyes--
but the heart was on the inside,
with less pressure to be two,
mattering less as to where it was
distributed--more likely to be
a mess,
would i have been better with two
hearts-- one on each sleeve?
to sense things on both sides, would i
have been more aware, more transparent, or
more dense, with the capacity for much, for
much--
or would i have been
overwhelmed with the novelty
of each person i meet, which I often feel anyway
as if i should tuck them away
and seek out promises to
keep them stolen into
the one, singular *****
that I have?
I should have been born with two--
either way, the unevenness of it all, you can't fix
the broken with the same crooked hands,
I am not at all symmetrical
I do not sense with both sides of my body
not at all with my heart
I have acted on an imbalance and hoped
the sullied appearance of such a vigorously beating thing
rough and on it's own would
speak volumes but it does not
and has not.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
A bowl of Rice,
Soft, simmered
And milky white.
Evenly shaped,
Each one like the next.
Rice was this abundance of
Easy going grain.
Wholesomely predictable
But comforting all the same.
The Pol Sambol had double his fury
A haphazard mix of harsh spices
Woven into soft textures.
The tangy taste of lime,
With a sweet coconuty crunch.
A burst. A passion.
An unevenness. A pattern.
Palatable extremes
That Rice had grown to love.
Their journey never began,
So there journey will end in never.
Rice was the base.
And Pol Sambol was the taste.
And so they lived forever.
Pol Sambol- A spicy coconut grind based sambol
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 2:16 AM UTC