"unidentifiable" poems
He asked her what it's like living with anxiety.
She smiled sadly, "It's a never-ending pulse-race. Like knowing you don't want to jump off a cliff but not being able to talk yourself down from it.
Your fears take on a nebulous, unidentifiable form that tightens around your throat and incapacitates you.
There is no calm. No peace. Only the edge of a very strained thread."
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 10:27 AM UTC
I wish it would
well rain harder
I wish that
the sky water would be salty
like my tears.
this way both could slide down my face unidentifiable
I wish the thunder was louder
just to help save me from my thoughts
I love how
well simply how
I'm walking to the beat,
crunching gravel to meet the sound
of my favorite song
even though it's no longer playing
I love that
the rain is blurring my vision
eventhough I couldn't see anyway
I love that with every step
I'm taking a shower
the rain provides me with good cleansing
I'm slowly scrubbing away every
remark, laugh, judge, scar and stain
and as my jeans, blouse, and shoes get wet,
I'm washing away some of this too
hidden deep within the seams
and yet some people wonder
why
why does she like the rain
well
It's not just rain
it's a friend
that I can talk to and actually leave with
a cleansed soul.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
Listening ears don't come easy
Most come with mouths harbouring wagging tongues
Pouncing on the chance to retell your story
Exploiting your need to empty acrid lungs
Listening ears, they're indeed very rare
Unidentifiable no matter how well you know
Lurking behind a mask of concern and care
Sweet words employed so your cards you'd show
Listening ears could be just a myth
An idiom to quench the thirst to confide
Listening ears sometimes come with fangs for teeth
Hungering and lusting for your trust and pride
Listening ear, oh why you come with a mouth so foul
Why the cunning trickery and unscrupulous deceit
Kindness as bait, when in fact you prowl
Many none the wiser until they are bit
Listening ear, in you I gave my trust
I bared my innermost and gave my all
Hoped that you'd soothe my ailing crust
Instead you lifted me high only to watch me fall
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
The sun
Is glad to see your face,
Your unseen grace,
Your Hidden space,
Your
Silhouette now covered in sun beams.
It seems
You've been
Packed away for a very long time
Its almost a crime how you've
Shielded yourself from his hydrogenity.
The sun
Is glad to see your smile
Your pearly whites
And colorless lips
Soft,
Too cold,
needing,
Craving,
warmth.
His
Golden fingers graze your cheek
And Bring life back to your pallor.
Who knew
Living as a recluse would make you so blue,
So unidentifiable?
He Brings you back from the dead
Pulling your soul back out
into your flesh.
Fresh
And healed,
At least Temporarily
But it
is enough,
His touch,
To liven your now tanning skin
To Make you akin to his own:
A sunflower
Trapped in the dark
3 inches tall instead of 3 feet
Now starting to grow beyond skyscrapers with his aid,
if his light is what's causing you to
Stand up straight
His heat is what is reviving your heartbeat
A Crescendo from silence to a slight pitter patter
Almost as soft as rain.
Almost as if crying.
If you listen hard enough,
You just might hear it wimpering, waking up from it's hibernation.
It
Wants to go back to sleep
But he
Refuses to give up his efforts of recesitation
For he knows it isn't for naught,
For he knows that it is working,
Your heart stirring
Beating
Louder as you step further out of the door frame
Let him
Cradle your soul with his firey hands
Let him
Bring you back from the dead.
You Look so much more alive when you let him work his magic on you.
The world
Has missed you.
Looking around,
Your mind starts whirring,
Analysing The outside world.
The Green of the grass and the
Blue of the sky,
All Graces of the solar angel shining over you,
Shining into you.
Giving you sight,
Giving you life,
Giving you the things you couldn't have before.
Let his
Golden happiness seep into your freezing bones,
And,
Turn them into torches
And burn brighter, in the daylight
Than you ever did in the darkness.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
i can’t describe the feelings i get
the day after a rainstorm
or when the sun sets early
in the winter
happiness and sadness
are easy to recognize,
but sometimes i have emotions
that i cannot identify
like how i feel
about you
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
Lies a stone.
And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic
Looking over the spent plates
where crusty bread
fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid,
and two Oysters Rockefeller
sat
until recently consumed by two parents
both in that awkward state of freedom
and longing
when their child is at camp,
out past the ducks on granite rocks
puffing themselves up
flapping their wings
towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee
my thoughts and eyes are drawn back
to the wheel of stone
leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties
covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle
Rose of Sharon
and other viney things
that are unidentifiable to me.
It has been painted during its time
but the paint is faded and chipped
and the feeling is that the stone
has outlived the painter.
Yet I do wonder.
What was its job 50, 100, 200
years ago?
Was it in a mill?
Did it lie flat, grinding?
Did it roll, upright, crushing things?
What else did they use round stones for?
Is this what retirement for a working stone is?
Cast to the side,
forgotten
hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant
where parents sit
Looking at Winnipesaukee
over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller
thinking of a child at camp.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself --
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A grey wall now, clawed and ******
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags --
This is what i am made of, this, and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
4.2k
Let us invoke a healthy heart-breaking
Towards the horrible world:
Let us say 0 poor people
How can they help being so absurd,
Misguided, abused, misled?
With unsifted saving graces jostling about
On a mucky medley of needs,
Like love-lit ****
Year after cyclic year
The unidentifiable flying god is missed.
Emotions sit in their heads disguised as judges,
Or are twisted to look like mathematical formulae,
And only a scarce god-given scientist notices
His trembling lip melting the heart of the rat.
Whoever gave us the idea somebody loved us?
Far in our wounded depths faint memories cry,
A vision flickers below subliminally
But immanence looms unbearably: TURN IT OFF! they hiss.
2.9k
Somber eyes
Fastened mouth
Broken fingers
As I stare out my bedroom window at the sky-
At an unidentifiable moon that seems to faintly glow behind its shadow.
Unknown to the rest of space,
Unknown to me.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
I see it for just a moment
A squishy mound of fur to the far right of the asphalt
This latest pile of dislocated mush is presented on a desert highway
A raccoon? No. Too small.
A coyote? Maybe. Who can tell?
That play-dough pile of crushed bones was not created outside the white lines where it now lays
Some chosen soul scraped and scooped the mystery meat to its resting place
Some jumpsuit wearing civilian is intimately aware with the parentage of the reassembled road victim
Do they have a moment of silence after the last shovel scrape?
Do they hold an internal roadside memorial?
What of the homicidal perpetrator behind his wheels?
He must know the identity of his victim
He must feel the agony of guilt
Or, is his only remorse in the quarters he must spend at the self-service carwash to remove the evidence?
Perhaps Road-Kill animals haunt their vehicle killers
Maybe their blood can never be truly washed from the ****** weapon’s shinny surface
Like spots on Lady Macbeth’s hands
Perhaps the killer’s dreams are frequented by unidentifiable ****** mounds with eyes that stare from unnatural places
After all
Justice must be had in one way or another
For the unrecognizable John Doe pile represents all those wild things that must chance to cross the hard, hot, lethal highway
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
thousands
think
after seeing
words,
millions
think
after seeing
images,
but
how many
out there
think
after seeing
an abstract
collection
of wild patterns
of unidentifiable
intentions?
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
Self-breed hatred so easily suppressed
Taunted by the world, it’s waiting to explode
No, there’s no true taste, we’re only meandering
Listening to the menacing roar begging
To be given breath to materialize
Subtle commentary begins to eat at the flesh of self-belief
Identity crises momentarily paralyze audacity’s ammunition
True sights of self-aesthetic-beauty tremble
Diminishing that part of self-worth
Looming attacks threaten to pour over and reduce
The value of internal splendor for it’s seemingly of no use
Every praise never given to the self but to someone else
A constant crack at the foundation of self-love, it subconsciously ensures
She and she and she and she are said to be wonderful, but never the self
Realization that from any angle the self is not good enough
Leaves the mind discombobulated for lifelong sentiments of inadequacy
Seems to be the only route
Unconscious self denigration provokes false sense of value
For the true inner wealth in self-worth is sullied and unidentifiable
But the self is not merely self-loath and harboring of inadequacy
For goodness in abundance is found a few peals away from the layers of insecurity
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
Listening to your heartbeat like it's a story that'll never be told again
listening to your heartbeat like it's the first edition vinyl
of my favourite song
and the only copy ever made
listening to your heartbeat
like the universe is sending me a message
through the whistles of the wind
listening to your heartbeat like science is trying to contact me
via the thuds of your *****
and justify the inexplicable
of how two astronomically unidentifiable catastrophes
clashed and become one planet
in a galaxy surrrounded by false stars
that actually turned out to be passing planes
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
72 ways to tell if your crush likes you
Always sent me in the worst preteen spirals
Because I wasn’t exactly sure how to casually check to see
If his pupils would dilate during our conversations
And, after a few seconds of my intense evaluation, he’d stop
And ask if he had food stuck in his teeth
And, if so, then I should be a pal and tell him
Because he wanted to impress
My best friend when she walked into the room.
That summer you two held an-end-of-the-year bonfire,
Where everyone brought their troubled old exams,
Bradburying their barely year old textbooks,
While toasting marshmallow s’mores atop the education protest.
My contribution was something more of a retribution,
Because I brought the poppiest, peppiest, most duplicitous,
Beauty magazine I owned
[It made me feel ugly and unwanted,
Judged me by my choice in mascara,
And set me up for heartbreak all too young].
As I watched it catch fire and morph into molten,
I couldn’t help and laugh,
Relief flooded through my veins when I saw that,
Even when the deemed beautiful is destroyed,
It crumbled down to the same unidentifiable inked gray,
Earth to earth,
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
jan from the corner store doesn't understand me,
I told her I wasn't mixed; my parents are just different
shades of the same color but she doesn't believe me,
and the man behind the counter silently agrees.
the old white lady that always takes the 5 train
stares at me curiously, her eyes say they don't trust me
and I don't understand why. I never thought I had to
explain myself to strangers or that my race was the most
interesting thing about me but that's always the
first question everybody asks.
my aunt told me the other day that I was jabao,
in other words, nobody knows what to do with me.
I am unidentifiable. my skin screams the sun and
stars too small to recognize; it says I am the product
of a collision between the blackest sea and the whitest sand.
some parts of my body sing a ballad so dark only certain
people would ever want to listen to. maybe these are the
parts that the old white lady on the five train is scared to
listen to. maybe the curls I tried so hard to straighten are
what terrifies her, maybe the black in my kneecaps keeps
her up at night, maybe the sound of boisterous music in a
language she could never understand makes her skin jump,
sends shivers down her spine makes her think twice
about who I am.
jan from the corner store doesn't understand me,
I told her I was jabao, a mix of summer glow and
muted winter skin. but she doesn't believe me; says
she has never met a Dominican like me, that in some ways
I must be a mixed breed. and the man behind the counter
silently agrees.
(h.l.)
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
There is so much indifference
Nothing seems to hold one’s interest
Wavering from one place to another
Mental inertia has set in
Hurting the soul, from all the bitterness
Walking down the path of indifference
Only left with a shadow, as a companion
There is something ailing, with no prognosis
Unidentifiable alienation of the self from the rest
Left alone with the legacy of indifference
Soul has become unresponsive to Love’s embrace
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
i fantasize about stomping on the gas,
hitting the accelerator
as i approach the on-ramp
for the 408,
launching like a rocketship
headed straight for outer-space.
careen into the concrete
headlong—
scatter my brains
and body-parts across the wall
like a ******* splatter painting.
as lights blur together above me,
my head goes hazy,
dazed in this fugue state,
half-awake and thinking absently
of the city-lights
drifting listlessly overhead
like unidentifiable flying objects,
hovering over this interstate.
i wish they'd beam me up.
kidnapped by aliens,
taken to a galaxy far, far away
so i could forget
the contours of your face.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 12:51 AM UTC
not every poem is about beauty
too caught we are in the moment to write about it
that is what makes it beautiful
pain clings long beyond instants
prolongs and window reflections
engulfing our bones
masticating our stomachs
from slow drip bile coffeemakers in our chest
the line from that one song starts the burning
and the eyes of a stranger flavored with reminders
i wish i could tell him i finally got to ____________
my blood is chunked with tomato slices
acidic clots and stagnant passions
float me in melancholy perplexities
a minute of oddity where emotions
are unidentifiable
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
The Girl from Coronado
Dark brown eyes the brownest hair the most captivating was the faraway look in her eyes the painter
Searches for her in lost dreams she materializes on the sharp trumpet blast then she lingers as it turns
Softly as the street in front of the Saint Louis cathedral in New Orleans she was as wistful she was the
Bleeding torment held in battle field shadows her way had the razor sharp that cut through pretense to
The real the meaningful what was that certain something that held you in awe was it the southern sea
Breeze that was absorbed the enfolding touches that were exuded from her depths there are still
Waters then there is Gloria is it fondly promised like flowers floating on the tide the sweet smile that
Cuts and divides the waves like a surfer coming out of the Banji pipeline her brown hair blows softly it
Has enlightened on the breeze as fragrance unspoiled unidentifiable it enthralls as she walks the sandy
Sea swept beach in the distance she passes as a spirit cast improperly in a human role to disturbing to
Fetching she makes appearances in Celtic dreams of misfortune she brings trouble as a winged wonders
Those that are not for evil but hidden in them are clandestine secrets that open new corridors of
Simplicity that brim with honor they are the culminations of promises long deferred now they are at
The door to restore she possesses powers that are seemingly strange but they are beholding the
Glimpses she allows trigger eager disruptions the common falls before her gaze you find establishments
That seemed impossible could she be Isis presumably not but just bearer of her traits one who gives gifts
Of the natural world to artisans from normal items joy is in them as fluid emotions they suppress but
Only for the pure cause of making greater results occur the tiresome is abolished the clay is gold even
Though it be hidden from many to the few it is cherished sought and redeemed by love in a sea side
Town on the southern coast of California her alluring beauty you too can possess this just open yourself
seek the opportunity to give to others your name will be favorably spoken like the graceful girl from
Coronado
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
hey, you know that feeling?
the one where you're in love -
sweaty palms and catching breaths
and a world spinning on an axis of one?
yeah.
me neither.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
Time and space unidentifiable
Afloat midair—hands and feet
Reasons and instincts, a hazy distance
Focus.
Stumbling awkwardly—a dull thud—all faults are revealed
On one ankle, a societal ***** tightens
Calloused by sharp emotions, numbed on hardened skin
I, on show behind the glass case—but that isn't me
All the truths became fiction, therefore I became a lie
Cake this mind of mine with makeup, don't let the sadness smear
A whirlpool, a hollow core, conflicted once again
At this point—although overdue:
Can this muddy rock still become the promised pearl?
A lurking presence of my fading self
In an unknown place, out of reach
There's the brutal wind, crashing-
Stumbling again, trampling in dust
Did the colours just fade?
My vision has never been this grey
That vibrant self of mine, where has it gone-
Is it gone
"Without conditions you must struggle,"
Those people aren't my enemies, don't misunderstand
There simply was nobody by my side
Walking this place alone so no one could hurt me—backfired
The world looks so noisy from the outside
Better readjust that person of mine
So I can at least fall asleep some day, even if by accident
To recover from this senseless jetlag of emotions
Traveled within the strict space of a room
I'll breathe it well—the last cold gush of air
To those creatures who coexisted within me
Have you all been well?
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
battered screws stripped bare by
a hundred thousand terrible twists
from an unsteady, inexperienced,
or overly excited hand
nearly rattling out of their proper positions,
hanging rather loosely
to the last threads of their holes.
fan them as they dangle,
fandangle!
but a blue gust from beneath
the anonymous and unidentifiable bursts
the shriveled scraps of low-grade steel
from their brittle perches
and
then one,
two,
threefourfivesixseventyeightmillion
clatterings invade all audibility,
heightening --- accentuating --- underscoring
each miniscule soundwave
until there is not much more than
white noise, crack-
ling like a ruddy transitor radio
i probably never had
but only equate it to for lack of
another more proper, perhaps more appropriate,
even more...profound (?) word, or, whatever;
hardware indignationum!
what abuses we dish these inanimates created by us for us!, and, yes,
i follow all syncretic trends to
their phenomenal (and fusional)
morphological ends. if i didn't, how could
i know the neutered from the neuterer?
attend to the screws;
the debased, bemused, once-bedazzled little bits strewn on the floor and
frazzled. go on,
get 'em up, up
off the ground.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
Cracked concrete, soaring sky scrapers
Hundreds of shoes patter across the ground
Designer summer collections of 1988 worn by many
Horns chant an uncomfortable song
And the streets,
littered with humans, cars and buildings,
can barely feel the sun.
A Georgio Armani Suit can be seen in the crowds,
Double-breasted, jet black.
It's cool style attracts attention in the midday sun,
as does it's owners confidence.
Expensive product makes his deep brown,
perfectly slick hair appear black.
His unidentifiable expression intrigues many,
a certain smugness lies within it.
His confident, conceited business strut reflects his situation;
A successful, handsome commodities broker
with a blood spattered rain mac in his $3,600 Ralph Lauren briefcase.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
She linked her arms behind her back and tiptoed down the hallway. Her family was all asleep.
Her mouth was drawn up at the corners and her eyes twinkled, even in the dark.
What could she be up to? thought no one.
She turned the corner into the kitchen. Her hair swinging around her shoulders.
A hum escaped her lips, the melody unidentifiable.
With a long arm she reached up and opened a cupboard, her other arm following suit to retrieve a glass.
Hopping quickly over to the sink, the long arms came into play again, switching the faucet on and filling her cup.
Thirsty, at this time of night? asked no one.
Her smile grew wider. She straightened out, having been bent over the sink.
Those long arms grew stiff.
She spoke,
"What are you doing in my house?" Her voice was deep and clear, like a river.
There was silence throughout the house.
She turned quickly, the water in her glass sloshing over onto her fingers.
There was no one there.
Her face became sad, the mischevious glint lost.
What are you doing in my house? wondered no one.
"Nothing." She said.
And went back to bed.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
These are pieces taken
from a mind of someone
falling in his own mind.
There are two significant bodies.
As the victim, one is tied
onto a wooden royal chair
while blindfolded; another
with scalpel at hand inflicting cuts,
sculpting flesh as beats
of Pornopop’s ‘Little Kafka’
play in the background.
Chiaroscuro. Lightbulb
in pendulum motion. From a distance,
there’s a bystander who can see
both of them in fluorescent smiles —
curious about the lack of cries
despite the absence of a gag.
Perhaps this is why poems require
too much words.
Here and there: a painting in progress,
an artist, an unidentifiable face on canvas.
*You always remind me to forget you so
let me be your masterpiece instead.*
And as the beauty of impermanence does
its work, his world fades away.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC