"unfeelingly" poems
Unmotivated Tears
I used to criticize
The eyes
Of those I knew
Who, at
Drops of a hat
Shed tears of ardor: God-knows-what.
Ascribing it
To vitamins and lack thereof,
Past, present and/or too much ‘love’.
Too something/something out of balance;
Nothing but a prevalence
Of yin or yang
Ganging up
On both those ducts.
Uncaring and unfeelingly – I used to be.
Now, at eighty-three it’s me.
I may need hormone therapy.
Or is it age sagacity -
Unmotivated tears
Based on a grasp of life’s chimere
That takes in all -
An all which makes one engineered
By tears
One must defer to.
Unmotivated Tears 4.24.2018 I Is Always You Is We; Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Aging; Arlene Corwin
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
Intangibly, it cometh and goeth.
Substanceless it slips in transition from one immeasurable instant to the next. Equitable to infinite space, in terms of distance, infinite time is a concept quite alien to the finite human mind. There is no proof of existence, it is a human conception with no sensory component, an illusion and utterly immeasurable in real terms with only a human contrivance to calibrate it....(and poorly at that).
Time is the silken zephyr on which we lay our dreams and aspirations. It is the currency of deep religion and is regarded as the ultimate sword hand of God. Incorruptible and absolute it brooks no favour, seeks no fame. Irreversible in it's cold implacable, unquenchability it merely, unfeelingly.... proceeds.
M.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
Sometimes you expect more of someone,
Because you
Would do that much.
And it hurts to realise
That you don’t have:
A rope to grasp,
A wall to lean on.
That you walk on a floor,
Whose tiles unfeelingly dissolve,
Letting you fall into the abyss,
With no rope to grasp.
That the one that haddock your turns to wind,
Letting you lose your balance,
With no wall to lean on.
An emptiness so vast,
Barley contained,
Held within a fist of flesh,
Pulsing with despair.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 4:47 AM UTC
It falls.
Beautifully,
Finally,
It falls.
Delicately,
Unfeelingly,
It falls.
Slowly,
Gracefully,
It falls.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 11:44 PM UTC
All the things, unsaid.
The thoughts, unsaid
behind a blue light lcd
staring into the white space
I do not fill with the:
I miss you so much and it hurts
I so very much enjoyed our time together
And maybe I'm over emotional
And maybe my vision is blurred
But I hurt when you aren't here
And I hate this machine
I've become.
And I worry she tore all my veins out
replaced them with wires, unfeelingly
pumping signals to this lead heart,
just gears and steam.
I am a machine, not a man.
I am efficient
I am strong
I am unfeeling
And I destroy everything
I touch.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
I dread the sunrise each morning.
Even darkness,
My oldest friend,
Abandons me each day
To fend for myself
In the world, naked, exposed,
Alone and unprepared.
They reach out to me,
A warm,
Welcoming embrace,
Tentacles licking at my stiff heart strings,
Striking up a tune
More melancholy than a funeral dirge.
I can't help but to fall into a trance;
They whirl me around
And I easily keep step
With their back-and-forth dance,
Slipping and sliding
On angry tears mixed with mucus.
Finally, I've had enough of the dance...
I push away the monsters,
Hurling sticks and stones
And laughing coldly, unfeelingly
As they hiss in surprised pain;
Tentacles recoil.
And I retreat back to my hole.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 12:25 AM UTC
The frailty of our will
shades fears to enter
the bright circle of life
through shabby doors of rectitude
displaying the prints of explanations
Markers of memories,
There is the rub that razes out the present,
Haze off the moments to appear,
Weighing upon tense life
Direct talk turns
its slumbering colours in smoke screen.
Troubling tabs actively open new grounds
of history with no past,
cover the clauses of cares unfeelingly
pauses whisper like songs sinking in dreams.
Though separation blurs
in blinking lights, phonie talks,
Sprawled in hands to mouth or ear to lips,
distance always fixes its roots
in untouchable finery of night.
waiting adds up nothing but anguish,
dividing its sentences into slippery sand
Battering invariably a hope inside us
with swerves of thoughts;
waiting stands no clock
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC