"unforgivingly" poems
He loves me, he loves me not
A constant phase and a common thought
Spins like a halo occasionally
And it summons me unforgivingly
He loves me, he loves me not
Don’t lose hope, don’t get caught
Losing florets over the flower shop
So obsessed, I couldn’t stop
For I keep plummeting petals
Hands are excessive pedals
He loves me, he loves me not
My feeling’s loaded, my wisdom’s locked
Aid my soul inside the casket,
over the garden,
My harvested heart bleeds red,
Red as garnet
He loves me, he loves me not
Still waiting for a twist to the plot
Maybe tomorrow or maybe not
I can’t remain forever-aiming and then rot
He loves me, he loves me not
It’s getting cold and it gets hot
I can volunteer to squeeze myself until death
Because I’m running out of guesses
He loves me, he loves me not
A rising action and a falling one
What’s done with the rises,
when I am the fallen one?
I faded once but I’m alright
What a fool, to have another try
Here’s to the planets that can be worthwhile
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
Poets, the disciples of the modern world.
Followers of the great Almighty Lord of
alliteration and symbolism.
Their eccentric natures make them the pariahs of this world.
We cannot wrap our minds around
the words they artfully speak,
so we refuse to accept them.
Their eyes burn like fire in their skulls
as they stare you down from a podium.
In their hands, they hold their own hearts
which they have ripped out of their chests,
holding them out as if asking for you to accept it from them, wanting you to understand what every beat means.
Poets are misunderstood beings,
tortured creatures,
but they are far stronger than any others,
because they have the gall to speak their minds unforgivingly,
bare their most inner secrets and struggles
to an audience of strangers.
They are quick of tongue,
speaking faster than one's ear can hear,
but somehow they still manage to work themselves into your head with every word.
They're parasites,
infecting your mind and soul,
tugging at you and driving themselves into your brain
until their poems are all you think of.
But they are not evil parasites.
They hurt us and make us feel to save us.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
The opalescent fish,
a predator
measured in unconscious patience,
chooses his path
without choosing.
A dip down beneath a bowed plant
to tune alee from the drift
and a sudden twist up
for a sharp gulp of bubble matter,
all without a wanting mind.
As I bend to indulge in no-time
with my friend, the fish,
I can only feel ashamed,
as my back and forths are
scaled to moment,
and wholly, unforgivingly
considered by desires.
If only to conduct the self like the fish,
unassuming of any space,
without a knowledge of this wish,
and unaware of natural grace.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
and there i was.
all of 3 and a half,
draped in hopping silhouettes;
neck deep in swaying hips
and blaring tunes
tied to kick drums.
dramatic rim taps
and wingtips cluttered
cross the wooden floor.
surrounded by tall men with
tall women whose heels
unforgivingly grazed
the groaning floor boards.
their gowns thick
as kitchen curtains
that seemed to flutter
like butterflies in hurricanes.
i heard the summer whisper;
her hums sweetly floating
through grand windows
tall as ten of me;
tasting the rhythm
with her tongue,
she blew a cool sigh;
flooding the steaming stew
of old souls with young bones.
sunk real deep between
4 counts and hi hats
to twirl her way
into their step;
a type of swing
'cept it had a bounce to it
like steeple chasers.
those ladies with copper faces
and stone seasoned roots
with joints as old as time
played tag with the down beat.
those daddys dodging
in their tailoreds
like taxis in traffic;
toxic with a plague of ghouls
like the Count, King Cole
and Billie, Fitzgerald, Gillespie.
Then,
just as the summer silenced her hiss,
just as the sun
dug its heels into the dirt,
making its last ditch efforts
to remain present,
dusk untied its bows;
unwrapping a gift like glory.
and we were bathed in glory
that laughed like lovers
and kissed like dogs.
it drenched us in sloppy showers
glistening gold like sweat.
yet still,
we emerged refreshed.
so as the night
began its usual
chocking down of day
and good afternoons
cacooned into goodevenings,
i stood there;
all of 3 years old.
surrounded by silhouttes
that could only belong
to old souls with young bones
who belittled big bands
with their own vibrations;
those copper ladies
and skyscraper sized fathers
in tailored suits
who two stepped
to both sunsets and groove
grew into shadows.
and i stood in the midst of
those dimmed stars;
stamina riddled.
knowing that as
a summer day died,
a summer night
had only just begun.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
You hate that I wear your shirts
Specifically the ones that you got from being in the marines
Its just I don't know you
I never really did
So I wear your shirts because you've worn them
And I was hoping that the fibers would tell me who you were
The woven strands would tell me about your personality
The dyes would tell me about your past
A history written in cloth
The folded crisped sleeves
Telling me about what happened in the past ten years of not talking to each other
You see I **** at talking about what I'm feeling
The only proper way I can is spilling it through the tip of a pen
Or pouring it into a keyboard
I'm slowly reminded that your shirts don't take on a condescending tone
Telling me that I'm just a kid
Part of me was hoping that
Some kind of weird information transfer would happen
Your shirt and I would swap information
So the next time you put it on
(If I hadn't taken it with me)
Everything I've been through would swap into your head and be processed
And you'd stop calling me a little kid and you'd realize that
I **** at showing emotions and that you aren't a brother to me
You're a stranger
And you left
When you did I had to grow up because you were the first to go
Ten years ago you left and I don't hold anything against you because I don't know you
And my earlier memories are always swirling eddies
A fogged shower mirror that I can never make out
You left and when you did you left a child behind
Someone who still had chimed belled laughter
Will o the wisps smiles
Someone who treaded on pearl ingrained feet
But those pearls began to sink in and cut
Only to become blood rubies
Unforgivingly beautiful
And seductively painful
I walked back into your life on those ruby kissed feet
I stood a little taller
My shoulders a little broader
My face a bit more graced with age
Hi
I'm your slightly older younger sister
How have you faired these past ten years?
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
To survive
And sustain itself,
Life
Must eat life / in this physical plane
In our pains and stains
Everyday we feel
Our souls drained
Of chi’s otherness
Illuminations
Just “because” unforgivingly
We are warring
With our selves for goodness sakes
For love in life
Do not mistake
My kindness is not weak
Still Their’s needs please
Society’s Pleasantries
Wolf in sheep’s clothing
Thick skinned
To survive
That there
These here skids
The secret war’s
Begun
Forgive me for having been
Remiss
Asleep
Almost lost who now
I am or was
But beyond the human sufferings
Painful lack
Of
Beloved
Love
All as One
Light is
Mums the word.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 10:23 PM UTC
Peter (my bf) and I are at Heraclee beach for the weekend.
It’s a little sliver of heaven, about 11 miles south of Saint Tropez.
It’s too early in the season to swim - being breezy and 72°f -
but it’s still the beach. I’m a neophyte beach ***
but I’m willing and eager to learn.
I’m valuable even if I’m not being productive [I self-affirm].
something poetic-ish..
*The sun’s a drowsy tyrant, not yet willing to unforgivingly scorch.
The beach is like glistening sugar, the sand still cool enough to walk, rogue west winds occasionally whip it to an ankle stinging sandpaper.
Majestic umbrella pines are dancing the hula. The shrub-like understory is dominated by drought-tolerant lavenders and rosemary that dense the air with perfume which complements the mediterranean brine.
There’s laughter, off somewhere, like wind-chimes playing clear, just above the ever-roiling sound of the surf. Birds are everywhere, gulls walk around like they’re bored, cory float on air, like kites and petrels skim against the wind, centimeters above choppy waves.
The beach isn’t crowded - French kids are still in school - but a few hardy, oiled, bronzed and sculpted bodies are sprawled on the pristine sand, like offerings to the god of leisure.*
Our hotel has its own private cove, with adirondack wooden lounges under yellow parasols. Pastel blue-vested wait-staffers circle, on the quarter-hour, eager to please.
“Deux (two) American Martinis, S'il te plaît! (please),” I ask, expectantly.
It’s a **** beach, but Peter got an alarmed look when I joked I might go ******* “Annick (my older sister) always goes ******* I informed him.
“I’d like to see that,” he’d chuckled, and when I gave him a raised eyebrow, he amended, “That came out wrong.”
.
.
songs for this..
Summer of Our Love by Triangle Sun
That life by Unknown Mortal Orchestra
The kiss of Venus by Dominic Fike, Paul McCartney
May 27, 2024
May 27, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
I am a pariah. Some see me as a joke, some see me as a mystery, some see me as a hot mess. But they all see me and refuse to stop seeing me. They unforgivingly gape and gawk at me.
Everyone has their own version of the story, and I cannot tell you how many times I have been told that my version is wrong. They seem to forget that after all, it is my story, but then they remember, and then they stare.
The few people that I have left continue to attempt to explain that this will all blow over with time. It has been three months since the incident occurred. Three months of staring, stories, and acting as if I’m not hearing their versions. As if I’m not hearing them call me a **** As if I’m not hearing them say that I liked what he did to me. As if I’m supposed to sit there and act like their condolences are genuine and fake a smile, just for them.
At this point, I am unsure if they are even staring anymore. I am uncertain if it is all in my head, or if this is what my life will be now. I am unsure if I will ever be able to be just looked over again. I am unsure of myself and my choices and my thoughts. I don’t even know if they are mine anymore.
Sometimes I wish that I could implode and make a colossal scene, but then I remember that it would just make the stares last longer. So I sit there, stuck, having to take the stares and hear their stories and listen to my uncertainty. Because after all I am just another one of their stories, and subsequently I will eventually disappear again.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
Texas is as hot as hell
and looks like it sometimes too
but I can't leave, it's paralyzing,
I love it like I'm dazed and confused.
Know I'd miss the flat green land
and always knowing what comes next
yearning for the shade of the soft, dark pine
crackled leather growing on my neck.
Here, you cannot hide from the sun
it chases you like a bird of prey
yet I have learned to live with it
I rise and I kiss it, never stray.
And I can sit and drink
like I am baptized from the inside out
this is the easy way
to taste freedom in the South.
It takes forever just to get out of this state
stretched as wide as the chasm of my mind
so long a journey from ear to ear
what am I supposed to find?
Left alone with no friend but my thoughts
what terrible company they are.
At least the skies are open here
I can find familiarity with my lone star.
Sometimes people leave,
in a chase of meaning, and perhaps some hope
but they will always come back
unforgivingly pulled by the invisible rope.
I'll let my curiosity wander
but not for too long
Rough cowboy reminds me
where I belong.
Mar 3, 2024
Mar 3, 2024 at 10:21 PM UTC
We don't fall
like rain
or like snow
or like New Year's Eve confetti
in sweeping graceful arcs;
we fall like atom bombs.
We fall like atom bombs,
ignorantly whistling our way to the ground.
We fall like a firestorm
scorching Dresden to smoldering ruin.
We fall like night--
completely,
unforgivingly,
thickly,
coldly.
We fall like angels
from twelve stories high,
singing love songs to concrete
to drown out the sirens.
We fall like pennies
from the Empire State,
flung from the observation deck--
carelessly,
mercilessly.
*Maybe falling makes us mighty,
but we're falling just the same.*
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Here is the secret of life.
The key to happiness.
The answer to the unnecessarily composite mathematical equation.
Let yourself fall in love with her
Let her bad habits become your favourite creatures of the night.
Let her laugh find its way through your selective hearing.
Let her hold your hand at concerts and let her kiss you when they're over.
Let her tell you that she loves you even though she's said it more than twice in those ten minutes.
Let her sleepy green eyes explore your body in the early hours of the morning.
Let her make your coffee the way she takes hers.
Let her finish telling her joke even though you already know the punch line.
Let her bite your collar bones and let her smile at you when she's done.
Let her destroy you.
Let her torment you and threaten to break the fragile heart she's got in her hands.
Let her look at other boys and let her wish she had them.
Let her tell you that you'll never be able to give her what they can.
Let her stop noticing everything you do to see her smile.
Let her hit you even though you're not the one who's into corporal punishment.
Let her break every bone in your body.
Let her leave you bloodied and weak on the unforgivingly cold bathroom floor.
Let her burn down the pathetic, metaphorical home you built together while you're still in it.
Let her validate these actions.
Then let her move on and forget all she's done.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
i am tired
of waking up
in the middle of the night
at the sound of
my skin tearing itself apart,
i can no longer remove
the stamp of
your lips and hands
off me;
my sides splitting open
so my scars ensconced
deep beneath the surface
can tell the story
of how i fell for you.
i am tired
of staying up
with nothing but
the company of the moon,
awaiting for its eclipse,
blinking away
fragments of what we had —
filled to the brim
with adoration —
although fleeting.
memories of
how you held me —
only distant.
again,
the clock chimed
unforgivingly,
reminding me
of late night drive throughs
around the crevices
of my wreckage of thoughts —
spilled and separated;
full of you,
only you.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
We are edging toward
the crest of December-
it looms, unforgivingly
over the horizon.
My mind is filled
with thick paints
and heavy smoke.
You stand askance
like some forgotten
silhouette,
begging for reprieve
in the waning moon glow.
I drink a little more,
and create tangible feelings
on tepid surfaces-
working like a madman
to keep the wolves at bay.
And I care about you
a little bit less
every day.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC
I am not a circle, I walk at will
Yet they howl as if I am a globe spinning still
In daylight they wait patiently, the hours they count
For night to fall, their moon to surmount
Yet its presence wavers without warning still
Despite its light an element none can ****
The clouds halt unforgivingly before it and silences their song
Disconnecting the lovers from their tradition lifelong
Yet I gave myself liquefying as water of some sort
And the great light was what was in thought
Reflecting the Sun in the moons place
Giving the song back undisgraced
I step aside without hesitation, veil removed
And I seek no acknowledgement for a Faith long proved
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
a beacon of peace
she glows unforgivingly
our sun for the night
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 7:01 AM UTC
WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE WHEN YOU REALIZE YOU LOST YOUR WAY?
WHEN REAL LIFE STEALS THE HIGH YOU LONG TO CHASE
YOU CAN'T CATCH HIM, ELUSIVE DRAGON THAT USED TO INTOXICATE
BACK WHEN YOU WERE PASSIONATE, BEFORE YOU WERE TRAPPED IN THAT AWKWARD SPACE
BETWEEN FOLLOWING SILLY DREAMS AND RESPONSIBILITIES
TOXIC NAUSEA'S FILLING ME AS THAT BLADE THAT DROPS UNFORGIVINGLY
IT'S AN IMPOSSIBILITY TO REGAIN THE STRENGTH OF THOSE DAYS FILLED WITH ANGST
WITH THE FLAMES THAT BLAZED INSIDE OF MY EYES TAMED
I CRAVE FOR THE TASTE OF THOSE HEIGHTS THAT I BRAVED
FOR THESE WORDS TO TAKE LIFT AND FLIGHT FROM THE PAGE
WITH SIGHT BEYOND SIGHT BEFORE MY SKIES FADE
BUT WITH WINGS MADE OF WAX THAT COLLAPSE IN THE LIGHT OF DAY
I'D HAVE TO FLY IN THE NIGHT GUIDED BY BLIND FAITH
AND FAITH IS LIKE A MAGIC TRICK THAT I CAN NO LONGER CONJURE
SO I JUST WANDER, CONQUERED, WORK TIL MY HANDS AND PALMS HURT
AND PONDER THE MONSTER THAT FOLLOWS ME, A STALKER
THAT SAUNTERS BEHIND ME REMINDING ME HOW I FALTERED
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
What now with you is wrong
In vein you hide your shame
The shadows are long
Your chance near gone
To dive in and make your change
Our Dead Beat God
Has left this place
Tapered steel
still medicates
Pay for Death
is that a joke?
No I'm serious
I always speak of what my mind's eye sees
Religious nuts curse my reasonings
For Blasphemy they're Damning me
Forgetting & Unforgivingly
Faulting the rational sanity
The very god they praise
Hath Given Me
Faith separates the weak
From the beholders of the sun
Only those who've sought
Far from pages man has spun
May again become One
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 2:05 PM UTC
The frosty carpet grass sticks,
Unforgivingly, beneath my feet.
The sharp fresh air flatters my lungs.
But for a cold, modest breeze, the air holds still.
I can almost smell it.
Winter’s careful workings,
Its gentle, passive movements,
Play with nature’s purpose,
Unfazed by wind or opinion.
A simple calling,
As if awaiting something grand,
Lingering with patience, feathery leaves,
Delicate notes from a lonely sky.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
it's from the dreams that wake me up in cringes
nauseous from the sickening memory’s twinges
that poison the hours of the day with painful fire that singes
that set me off like explosions into my drinking binges
because of winning the debate that sobriety in this miserable place
would be insane trying to heal the strain with grace
my heart's been sewn back into my chest so many times trying to keep pace
with the thick black stitches of self taught renewed hope I hope to replace
just for it to burst or be removed and slit deep at it's throat again
as I slip down another slope into the ways I try to cope as I’m drained
back into the times I can't escape because they really are the past I can’t feign
and knowing I was cast in a mold and I will never escape my shape or it’s strain
there will be no peace after the things I was told, not with age, no matter how old
not when I accomplish, not when I survive, and not now that my blood has turned cold
because my molested heart is too weak to beat, too scarred to keep a hold
after all the times it trusted, only to be opened from ribbon wrapped packages just to be sold
I keep having to buy myself back from the thrift store of my own life
***** back together all my feeling parts, always trying to justify leaving a wife
so now I kneel, praying on my knees in slobbering tears for the aches to be less rife
begging to forget the loss of a son, willing to cut my flashbacks out with a knife
my new life has somehow begun and their ghosts haunt me unforgivingly
carving slivers off of the inside of my skull, never letting the pressure free
educating me with the lessons of emptiness and cold pains deep as the sea
and always with creeping thoughts of what I'll never regain or again grow to be
and even now with all my new days and change
the life I knew is still estranged
and I live with the truth that the shape of my mould so strange,
my destiny in the shape of my loss, will always remain
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
Promises
I made a promise once
If you can win a promise
I won
This promise broke my heart
Shattered it
It's in my body in shards
Floating around
I move slightly
It pierces my organs
Unforgivingly
This promise will be the death of me
And I can't wait
I'm looking forward to it
This promise was our love breaking
My knowing
We wouldn't make it
I won this promise
And I'm loving the pain of it.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
it starts with the masses.
heaped upon one another in grey, wet bodies
and from the amalgamate of ruined life
rise the silver, brilliant winged
filthy sog and bones sludging off
their unmatched, magnificent light
like shooting stars they ascend
to the enormous white clouds
garnered with the span of their great feathers
wearing masks of divine neutrality
and we
in the masses
stare so longingly at those divine heavens
some of us with patchworks of feather and bones- hopeless things we can barely call wings-
tattered and ripped but still determined, like the writhing of a starved beggar-
flatter unsteadily up
groping desperately at the clouds
with bony, aching fingers
only to meet
solemn and unforgiving
stone
and pushed
back,
tossed
back
into the masses
and like comets, they
rain down
the fall of the inadequate
crashing into the hideously wet festering:
into the decay of the mundane and ordinary
and thus the procession commences
great silver wings nailed with dignified
steel stakes
graceful hands and feet
mangled unforgivingly with hammer and iron
we, the inadequate and mundane and ordinary
we wail, we scream we cry
for the destiny of divinity
in anguish and desperation, our cacophonic chorus
becomes
the great symphony
of the decaying and dying
bathed grotesquely in the light of the holy
we continue to beg and shout and call
the opera of roaring voices:
the crucifixion of the prodigy
as we continue to decay
the weathering, spreading
and becoming, morphing into something no longer
recognizable
slowly we die off
each of us, clawing and howling to our very last moments
in succumbing to mortality
the symphony, melting in its desperate, rabid energy
until the echo of the last
haunted cry-
silences
hence closes
the fall of the inadequate
the crucifixion of the prodigy
and
the decay of the mundane and ordinary
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 8:19 PM UTC
carry memories,
like the dirt underneath
fingernails
unpainted and hidden not,
carry scars like that
of roses
and sing unforgivingly,
sing like mountains
pointed
at no one
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 1:05 AM UTC
You told me you loved me.
You told me once,
Twice,
A thousand times.
You told me softly,
With sweaty hands,
And eager lips.
You told me loudly,
For the world to hear.
You told me truthfully,
With tears down your cheeks,
And sadness in your eyes.
You told me to comfort me,
When there was sadness in mine.
You told me fervently,
With madness in your step.
Perfectly,
In the snow, with winter on your breath.
You told me until your lips grew chapped,
And your throat was raw.
You told me as many times as you could,
In every opportunity you saw.
You told me you were leaving.
You told me once,
Twice,
A thousand times.
You told me softly,
With your body shaking,
And your lips trembling.
You told me loudly,
Unforgivingly,
And doubtful.
You told me truthfully,
With tears pooling in your eyes,
When your hands just couldn't find mine.
You told me to comfort me,
That you'd come back in time.
You told me carefully,
With tenderness.
Imperfectly,
With dying love in your caress.
You told me until you couldn't breathe,
Until I started screaming.
You can't leave me, you can't leave me.
But you left me anyway, in the snow and bleeding.
Your words were made to break me.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC