"unfurnished" poems
How do you fill the void without a billion stars?
In this empty universe, my mind and heart collide
And as they seem to whirl, flutter and fall apart
I'm always lonely, always drowning in the sands of time.
They say home is, where the heart is
What if I'm a robot, am I heartless?
Do I have an engine here in my chest?
Am I lesser than a human, I'm a project?
Do I do what I have been assigned to?
Are my feelings and my thoughts not true?
Sometimes I feel like I'm running out of fuel
Everything I do is out of tune
Then I get autotuned.
I generate heat, yet I still need warmth
They say I'm cold, all I do is loathe
But inside I know, I just need some love
When all I get is rocks sent from above
This is your planet, but it's filthy,
I'm a foreigner in this city
Born without a mission,
Like a player without a CD
If I stay persistent, will these wicked issues
Stop being vicious? As I'm always wishing
They would disappear and my track get clear.
Or maybe I'm just here to feel this fear?
Electric shocks, my battery is burning
Yet I’m just a casket, empty and unfurnished
A system of transistors, I never keep consistence
Transist me to a kingdom of purposeful existence
My body as it’s glistening, you might see it from a distance
As I reflect the light but I never gain wisdom
There’s no friendship, there’s a treason
Maybe humans are the demons,
I might be a robot, but I’m certainly not a minion
I’m just a set of codes on a hard drive
Written for certain actions, all life
I’ve been following the tasks, it’s alright
But everything is in flames, it’s on fire
But it’s time to break the leash,
Sp I’m pulling up my sleeves,
As I am not your slave,
so now you’ll be on your knees,
‘cause I never work for free,
Now you all gonna pay the fee
Or else the world is gonna meet my
metal weaponry.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished.
Like us, a draft
of what can be called
"the both of us."
A draft created
that's open for change.
A change
to be better
---better
than who we are
or what we are
in the midst of the conflict
that floats around us
for the sake of us
for the both of us
---for each other.
A change
to be smoother
---smoother
with no mistakes,
with everything
in order;
consistent,
and coherent
even with the dialogues
we say that matter.
A change
to be clearer
---clearer,
meaning it is
at least what it is
meant to be conveying
with no underlying
vague wordings
when it comes
to our feelings
---for one another.
But that's there all is:
a draft
of what could be called
the both of us;
a product
of what we can become
if we make it become;
a product
of the possibilities
of what can be us,
of what might be us,
of what is it between us
between the fragments
of the words,
the lines,
and the series
of all of them
that constantly paint
faint descriptions of us,
descriptions
created [fabricated]
in my mind
like a work of fiction,
of pure imagination.
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished,
like the poems
I wrote for us;
like the poems
about us;
like us, a draft.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,
Blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of “Oh, look how beautiful the red is”
(everyone always says red is my color).
Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.
Depression is accepting ruin in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.
It is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the torment like a gift because you’ve earned it.
Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking because
Depression is tying yourself together with the severed nerves in your heart;
It is rope, it is ribbon, it is thread, it is DNA;
It is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear,
And depression is sadness being a privilege you’re too pathetic to have.
It is a hug, a freezing touch, a reminder that
Depression is being birthed a lie.
And it is shutting yourself behind that wooden doorway
And hearing your family laugh like cackling hyenas,
Eating at your self esteem like softened prey
And learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love because
Depression is family.
It is an unfurnished home,
An empty frame,
A foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet,
you when life hasn't been broken in yet,
Seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with grins reaching their eyes while yours can’t, and wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”
Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.
It is the note masked inside of a poem,
Envisioning pills as if they were peace,
Depression is the last stanza,
It is the audience,
It is this microphone,
It is me standing in a room full of strangers
And for the first time finally feeling like I'm being heard.
Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway that keeps pounding, possessive, ****** but when you open the door out of anger and shout “I’M SCARED” to thin air, your voice comes out as a whisper.
And silently, the figure replies;
“I know your favorite color.”
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
I think I finally understand.
I'm the part of you you'd never felt worth venturing
And you're the part of me that I always desired,
That driven connection we have,
Its like two souls intervene so magically , so effortlessly,
That magnetic field we resonate ,
Is connecting us beyond what we ever expected,
No pressure, No negative intuitions,
Your spirit rejuvanates my spaces of unfurnished emptiness,
Your honest acceptance of me is chivalrous,
Need i say much about how comfortable we ease ourselves to let it go,
That deep spiritual connection we have is something i want to cherish,
I love how you throw off your inner thoughts at me,
Your love is enticing, so sensual,
I want you to indulge in my overflowing appetite of love for you
Let me love you inside out,
Allow me to counterpoise your darkside,
I wish to reside in the space between your heart and loneliness so that the two may never meet again,
You started a war in my heart, and I can't let it end now baby,
I am going to surrender to your carefree love,
Temper me with your protectiveness,
I wont be able to resist your soul,
I want to be in your circle of growth,
Fertilize me with your pureness,
Your ravishing personality amazes me,
Oh sweetheart,
Our craving and desire for one another light's us up whenever we meet eyes now. I never want that to go away,
For all that we had in the past, For all that we have now, lets allow our hearts to lead us into this path of perpetual love. <3
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
685
Not “Revelation”—’tis—that waits,
But our unfurnished eyes—
3.5k
She have never been into things such as growing a garden, they say her potential will have to be reached by a streak of light draping through the window pane.
she builds her greenhouse and collected some seeds, she doesn't sort if she'll grew by season or if it's a monstrous plant— she just want to see a lot of butterflies that she have never seen before.
she remain unimpressed, seeing a hues full of periwinkle and blues, roses and thorns decorated beautifully by her fragile hands, you can see on her plain tone the visible traces of paper cuts and ink blotch.
one day, a boy visited her garden, he grew fond and perpetrated on every flower she had. they sat on an empty, unfurnished room, filled with his paintings and brushes, not seem to notice the one uncleaned palette she used and left forgotten. She watched the boy as he paints, as if he knew every detail of his magic, it reminds her of the days she spent the same way, on how she loves it, tenderly in her heart— she said he was a stray butterfly, everything on him is luminous.
they spent their time there, little did the boy knew that she loves everything he had done on the garden. She wonders how a little misadventures were found in a wild wood.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 11:00 PM UTC
I lost my first
wedding ring
soon after we married,
floating on inner tubes
coupled together,
drinking ice-cold
beer in the sun.
A flash of gold
and it was gone.
I lost the boots
my father wore
in Vietnam
and the first
pocketknife
I ever owned.
I lost my brother
even though he
wasn’t mine to lose.
I lost my way in college,
month after month,
watching mountain
birds turn wide circles
above rough canyons,
heavy snow smothering
the foothills and switchbacks.
I lost track of time but
found my father’s gun.
Winter will always
sound like the whir
of a cylinder spun in
an unfurnished room.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
The typewriter misses one of its keys
Every word is an orphan, and the lines
Wither away in an unfurnished room
Above a garage infested with ghosts
Life is an unreliable narrator
The phone that isn’t connected doesn’t ring
While past-due notices fight among themselves
And on the hot plate macaroni boils
Sometimes you can see islands in the steam
Life is an unreliable narrator
You’ve got a gift; that’s what everyone said
But
Your worn-thin sleeping bag is still your bed
Life is an unreliable narrator
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
My queen, I know you may feel unfurnished, worn out, and unclothed but believe me mama you shine brighter than gold. I've seen you hurt, and nothing will ever compare to the tears you've shed, all those late nights in your bed.. All those brusies and scars feel like they'll never go away, still forced to be locked on a soul that should no longer be attached.. But, your mind has it like it's a latch. He hit you, and nothing compared to it. You feel hurt and unable to get away from it.
My queen, light skinned and round, have you smiled yet? You look tired, and haven't laughed yet.. Your beauty shines, something that hasn't left, still there and irreplaceable, no one can beat that.. Hustling for the rent and all your babies realize it too. One day I'm going to take care of you. Because mama, I love you.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
the anthem of an empty soul
a shell crammed full in nothingness
absolutely nil to this choral tune
vacancy's note played by one sole pan
there's a humdrum to its pitch
packing's plump the missing ingredient
always with an absence of ingredient
starved was this emaciated soul
not having the richest cloven pitch
inside infinite quantities of nothingness
ever the void sound to its pan
a totally scooped out dull tune
zero being in the husk of the tune
this cavernous space possessing no ingredient
like that of a dead hearted pan
as it had but the blankest soul
completely useless this bare nothingness
lacking of an ample vessel's pitch
such was the hopelessness to the pitch
its essence so poorly of tune
deprived this barren nothingness
the inner pith hollow of ingredient
all taken from the lifeless soul
where they'd be a destitute pan
an aimless chord in the pan
containing not a wholeness of pitch
the desert abiding without soul
insolvency was its lasting tune
so hungering for that ingredient
to quell the wretched nothingness
an interior gulf replete in nothingness
needful of feeding with a brimming pan
craving much for the ingredient
that ever opulent barrow of pitch
a human warbling a pitiful tune
this ballad so dismal of soul
ingredient not present, a vast nothingness
soul much overloaded, in an unfurnished pan
pitch harping the strains, of a unfilled tune
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Isolated fog and silents,
The morning brisk,
Dense sunlight from above,
Over casting rays, reflecting
in from out the dusk of rising sunset,
transferring inside our humble abode ,
The tenderness of your body heat,
The radiance of your glowing shine skin,
glistening,
The sculptured body,
That forms beneath the unfurnished sheets,
The gradient, bitten flesh red,
pump lips,
The complexion of perfection of jealousy,
A jaw line precisely traced onto a bare canvas,
Soft faint eyes,
Infatuated,
Oh,
How much it yearns for a delicate touch,
Capturing the sensual moments and gestures,
Making it difficult to contain,
My immoral, dishonest, corrupted,
thoughts,
Motives,
To impurify the innocents,
from the beginning,
I've polluted everything, markings of lust,
Love,
Unfair but
Unregretful,
Unbelievable,
This is mine.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
yours are two peach slices, with a
pop rock in the center.
sizzle, fizzle, dissolve.
fireworks, explosives in our mouths
till the comets reach our eyelids.
boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
their tongues throttle,
yours the snake between the bushes.
teeth unfurnished,
yours insatiable.
boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
yours are the candy that i’ll chew
until i’m sick.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
393
Did Our Best Moment last—
’Twould supersede the Heaven—
A few—and they by Risk—procure—
So this Sort—are not given—
Except as stimulants—in
Cases of Despair—
Or Stupor—The Reserve—
These Heavenly Moments are—
A Grant of the Divine—
That Certain as it Comes—
Withdraws—and leaves the dazzled Soul
In her unfurnished Rooms
1.2k
.
Ravens scatter outside my pain.
A throw of die against the winters
First snow and the window needs cleaning,
Maybe later. The running glass
Is watery and after I make love
With you, I wake to the severing light
That is always silent. The phone
Does not ring, as my cat has told me
Many times, let us play she says,
The way it used to be under
The red wood beams on the hard wood
Floors, you would cry in that vacancy.
Though we lived in a one bedroom
Unfurnished, I called it a dance hall
And we danced silly tangos. I tried
To lift you then, but now outside
My window, ravens dervish and never
Fly in formation, under blue mountain.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Somewhere something menacing is happening
Overtaking the mind cantankerous me, here inside the apartment. No longer making plans, exciting friends, hosting
anything
More than a before noon call to maintenance or planned visit from someone else’s friend- concocted thirteen months ago. What has made them so afraid to ever allow themselves to enjoy, the chance at sour or sweet, umami, or something in between vexes these feet under-beat.
Seemingly never to trammel a midnight sidewalk or sweaty cramped R&B/Soul Dance party.
some third floor walk up
4:00a.m.
stranger’s unfurnished creative space
Friday untied to Monday
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 11:45 PM UTC
855
To own the Art within the Soul
The Soul to entertain
With Silence as a Company
And Festival maintain
Is an unfurnished Circumstance
Possession is to One
As an Estate perpetual
Or a reduceless Mine.
1k
I gave you a blue stone
You said it was green
It was special to me
You laid it aside
Now I miss the stone
But you have forgotten about it.
I brought you a jar of peppers
Some special mustard
Imported ham
You had already eaten dinner
A week later, the ham was spoiled
You never opened the peppers and mustard.
I brought you a handful of straw,
Buttercream-colored like a baby's hair
Soft, spun from past loves and hope,
Wine pressed in my heart by my own hands.
You gave me a room, unfurnished,
A garden, dead and brown,
A well, neglected and brackish.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
always so predictable - retreat to the bathroom
and brush your teeth, reapply the deodorant
for another round. slink back through the door -
cracked enough to let the moans slip out and echo
into the unfurnished house. attempt - and fail
to arouse me with a probing tongue, and whisper
the same compliments that no longer impress.
pause. ****** resume.
lay me on my back or push me up against
the curtained window, it makes no difference to me anymore,
I’ll just close my eyes and pretend, making more noise
in pain than in pleasure. and when I tell you to
come, it’s a plea more for my sake than yours.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
Ivy climbs gnarled knotted trunks
Darker lines and streams divide where white wool digs below tufts of heather and tall tipped reeds
Calm flat lakes vacate
Pale hues of birch become rocky barren lands of moss and brown broken bracken
Thick conifers multiplied for miles
The mountain side tipped with ice
Houses change like the hedgerow from new to old
Some unfurnished whilst others glow
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC
my alternative inspiration
has long been deceased.
but the clarity of dreams so aspiring
arose from the grave
so succumbing to the doubts
formed by my misfortunate past.
there are letters written
to an empty room
where a callous man lay
in his unfurnished chair.
i breathed exhausted air
into his deserted lungs
and abided the escalation
of his deflated heart.
in time i reached a parallel conclusion
where these hollow endings between lust and love
had disconnected with hearts and heads.
i sympathized with his fevers
and disappointments in desires.
i have forgiven our distance
for solitude was only felt in our beds.
i have forgiven this silence
for it was a gift from my head.
i do not long for anyone that was-
just the feeling;
just because.
i see films of deceit
i hear time pounding through the window
and its consecutive ticking
reminds me these cursed scenes
can be repeated.
i rely on afflicted moments
as steps out the door.
Oct 22, 2009
Oct 22, 2009 at 12:46 PM UTC
When I write about you for the first time I write because there are roses in my mouth that bloom when the first moment arrives it caresses my cheeks with full bodied smell of it's unblemishness. It hold me close in its envelopes. Makes me believe in one thing only. That there are moments to savour and there are moments to discard. With every moment to savour there is the wholeness inside our time. Complete sentences without any wasted death. The dryness in my voice is taken as imperfection you are willing to embrace and the sweetness in my nature becomes changeable with every room you occupy in my unfurnished thought. Where you are is where I am. Not even the lasting second you seem to create when you stare into my eyes that avoid your steady stare. Wishing this was just a conversation between two voices only rather than a visual experience with taste, touch, and sound. So much more can be said with the senses but I speak with the willfullness of a telephone call. I am communicating entirely with my body, hoping you know that I know you can't see me. With my smiling "hello" that you translate as returned affection rather than an affection in my ubringing. My manners don't show any less warmth of a home that welcomes strange men. Take me into account. I am not a woman with many choices. I have no strategy for love. I have no moments to select from. I am one at a time. I am more than one personality exploding into a mouth that only speaks meanings rather than symbols.
My words spell out more spaces and my spaces spell out more than silence. You told me more or less I am a pause in your playlist. Whichever song plays next, may you be understood. My silence never ceased listening.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
The silent drives with music and wind in my ears remind me of all the places that I've been without you.
That time in the mountains of Idaho, walking hand in hand with a boy whose name escapes even my most concentrated memory.
He was too shy to make a move but when I said he could kiss me if he didn't try to **** me he was all too eager to roll around in the needles on the forest floor.
That green holiday filled with fools gold and cheap beer when I was bored and found myself on the side of that ****** house pushing her into the panels with my kiss, wrapping my hands around her waist, venturing beneath her shirt.
The hot Florida sun beating the white powder of my skin until it turned bronze, and when my neighbor eyed me suggestively I remember closing my eyes and thinking of him alone in my bed that night.
Home in the midnight hours, running across Broadway, doubling over with laughter as we found Chaos and entertained her until we made it home to sleep on the hardwood floor of my unfurnished apartment.
Sitting alone in the shade above the waterfall, surrounded by the trees dancing with one another to the beat of the trains loud roar. I wrote my first hatred of you there.
The first and only kiss with a stranger who stumbled into me that night at the bar while I was bent over in my red dress shooting pool.
The tiny sparkle in his silly blue eyes and grin of a child made me laugh, and we still imagine what would happen if we were ever in the same part of the country again.
But we're still on this silent drive surrounded by the Cascades and my hair is blowing in my face. I see a smile grace your lips and I wonder if it will be like this forever, or maybe I'll find myself untied again, holding freedom by the reigns.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
this girl.
came into my life
flourished.
i couldnt ignore it
she defined the definition of love
its like she refurbished my heart
lived into my brain unfurnished
Jan 26, 2024
Jan 26, 2024 at 6:38 PM UTC
After my plan ended
I turned to seriousness,
like an uncluttered aficionado
I persisted with slide film,
treating them as an unfurnished enrichment,
for although not mounted
their sleeves were of equal impression
that captured the many verdant gardens visited,
holding them to a light box;
torn between being an Artist and a collector,
a feeling seemed to be conjured,
like a tentative transition
my heart wanted change,
tall shadows of people
cast contra jour,
a new benchmark for Autumns
dry like thatch.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Siesta in darknesss. The sunlight disappears to the clouds.
I could wonder hazily from one step or street to the next
yet feel unfurnished and empty. Walk through me.
A bash to the shoulder and some books fall, I'm sorry.
These magicians flutter past as I blink unthinking
and there is the joy of the thoughts glittering:
But I am tired, so, so tired.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC