"unlabeled" poems
Many things in my life, unsorted
many thoughts in my life, uncategorized
many mysteries in my life,unsolved
many potentials in my life, untested
many emotion in my life,unlabeled
many problems in my life,remains unresolved
many days pass away, unnoticed
and still, my life continues...
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
Naked body scanners
Internal checkpoints
Peaceful protesters maced
GMO unlabeled
Depopulation through vaccination
Half of America under sedation
..I can barely stomach today's headlines
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
mom betrays us.
headlights into the night
& up the breakneck boulevard bluff overlooking town and terminus.
she brings his heart in a ziploc bag,
an offering
to that old burnt-out oak.
[husband\father\corpse]
front porch blood trails forever. she
claims self-defense and the camera-eyes caramelize her
fame & fortune & stepdaddies & book deals & ziploc pb&js & dead dog omens.
when did the heartache begin?
heir\son\brother\body
racing car ****** and fluxed up the boulevard in a ritual reach for daddy and the oak.
the girls are waiting. one two three, seeds.
brakes sabotaged. he
bursts into death, a molten ball of mazda.
father and son laugh there on the brim of here and hereafter.
apparitions uncoiled.
[home movies]
where mercury avenue ends
the woods begin.
& those woods are evil, an eldritch place, she laughs.
even the indians wouldn’t bury their dead there.
america.
caught between the whir of spokes and windshields reflecting
sky and skin, the blue hue
of television flickering on the hands of a family.
grandsons conjure grandmaster demons
on the ply of their treefort high.
the heart of grandma in a ziploc bag.
jupiter and saturn are in conjunction,
twelve past midnight on a tuesday in september.
a school night.
[the babysitter brings over an unlabeled video tape, says its scary]
the children watch.
slumber party screams and pb&js.
ghouls blunted by pungent neighborhood inertia.
son, a ghost returned in rhythm and electronics,
hungry for pizza and pure vengeance.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
She's a queen
Regal and gorgeous
She's bright as whisky, serene as earl grey
She's got lips of fire
And a body
That cost 4 kings their kingdom.
She exudes an intoxicating perfume
Her lashes are fans upon her golden cheek
Her hair is a halo of the purest gold
She walks with the fluidity of unfurling silk,
Her voice is blue velvet
And jewels fall from her mouth as she talks
I'm
A bit homely
And lost like an unlabeled envelope
And frightened like a child in the dark
I'm a full sponge, and must sometimes weep a little
My crown is ill-fitting
My eyes are weird elfin lights
My heart is as some distant, famine-struck land
I'm a ruffled little bird
And listening to me speak is like watching an unrehearsed play
We are both soldiers
Waging the same vicious war
And unfortunately
This is a world
In which only the swift and strong prevail
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
some days, his eyes are full with angst
his arms down his sides, with his fists as closed as his ears
and all I want to say is *I know how it is
to be so angry you don't know where to go
because the whole world lights you up like a dry stick of explosives,
how it is to have your feelings being so big they start to feel
like extensions of your limbs,
waving uncontrollably
and all you can do to avoid their friction from setting you on fire
is either to cut them off or keep your arms down your sides*
but I step aside, because he can no longer take in my words
his six year old eyes are filled with the nothingness of
an anger so big and unlabeled
but someday, I will tell him and he will understand
I will tell him that even though my blood is not in his veins,
I will cleanse it from soot and silt,
I will be his human shield from this world
I will tear kingdoms apart and slay every last creeper
just to help him level up
and I will uncontrollably, explosively and unconditionally
love him
//
vissa dagar är hans ögon fyllda med ångest
hans armar längs sidorna, med nävar lika hårt stängda som hans öron
och allt jag vill säga är att *jag vet hur det är
att vara så arg att du inte vet vars du ska ta vägen,
för hela världen får en att tända som en torr bunt sprängämnen,
hur det är att ha känslor så stora att de börjar kännas
som förlängningar av dina egna armar och ben,
okontrollerbart viftande
och allt du kan göra för att förhindra att deras friktion tänder eld på dig
är att antingen hugga av dem eller hålla armarna längs sidorna*
men jag går undan, för han kan inte ta in mina ord längre
hans sexåriga ögon fyllda med ingentinget
av en ilska så stor och oettikerad ilska
men någon dag ska jag berätta för honom och han ska förstå
jag ska berätta för honom att även fast mitt blod inte flyter genom hans artärer,
ska jag rensa det från smuts och sot,
jag ska vara hans mänskliga sköld från den här världen
jag ska slita kungariken itu och döda varenda creeper
bara för att hjälpa honom att levla upp
och jag ska okontrollerbart, explosivt och villkorslöst
älska honom
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
I see new growth emerging from an old tree's heart.
A new sapling sapping strength from what would enrich generic soil,
contributes something unknown to an unassigned
Future
Instead this exacting branch emerges to claim the universe for itself.
No longer can this unnoticed, rotting stump contribute to the greater good
but feed instead, a unique life so it may one day
die and have the chance to fill the old soul’s soles.
The unlabeled, non enumerated vagaries of our world
cowardly whinge in the background
while the assertive actions of the flowers
and falcons shout out loud for their own preservation.
Food chains serve as feeding trays for those cells
who have bound together with that joie de vivre
necessary to drive the generic engine of nature
in their direction. This predilection
to protect the potent and powerful
among us is not simple chance
but a predetermined proclamation
from our divine protectorate pushing
the proper paupers forward until they find
themselves ensconced in the holy foliage of nature's glory.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
my life is becoming a series of unfinished poems
there's one about the time
we walked home drunk
and kissed in the snow
I remember it so vividly
and there's one about the time you slept over
and how you held my hand
when you thought i was sleeping
but these poems are unfinished
likely because you and i
are unfinished business-
or rather, unofficial, unlabeled, I'm unsure-
I don't even know what we are
And I want to ask,
but then i remember that i am supposed to be the cool girl
the girl who does not care about what we are doing
and doesn't like labels
the girl who says "yes come over and drink"
but doesn't worry about what she'll confess when drunk
the girl who is okay with making out
but just calling this friends
the girl who doesn't ask questions
because she doesn't care about answers
but i am young and i am not the cool girl
i have never been the cool girl
questions to me are spaces to write answers
answers that i want to know
that i want to learn
that i want to hear
so please
just tell what this is. what we are.
i don't know why this seems to be so hard
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
(...)
It is perhaps this association between birth and beginning each school year which led me to respect knowledge. The entire month of August tends to fly by, unnoticed, in anticipation of the day I see children forced back into ill-ventilated buildings to emulsify themselves in education, for knowledge. Knowledge, that Moloch of an idea! Hobbies, interests and Summertime activities were heaped on flaming tongues with words in order to illustrate their ultimate insignificance. We hoped to bring out the blessing of wisdom from its mouth. “What matters is the coming Winter, not the frivolous activities of undisciplined youths.” It is as if the leaves of every tree were humanity's hair, and August had pulled back every strand to blow the woodsy breath of Autumn smoke into life’s ear. "You won't be this way forever." I am yet seduced by Fall’s cryptic murmurings and led to believe in endless, Halcyon flight. With arms draped around us from behind, knowledge draws me into oblivion, with unlabeled memories and I throw my desires into Moloch’s mouth. Now that I am burning, my self is the voice of this demigod. My birth certificate is my body, holding a memory to be inscribed on some later form beside some other numbers. Life has only so many Decembers.
(...)
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 3:52 AM UTC
Recluse
beneath congestion of cigarette smoke
and spirits
a crippled voice
deteriorates
His mornings are bleak;
Rise
to the sink
to the shower
to the wardrobe
to the door
to meet the day
Slacks, overcoat, and loafers
topped off with some novelty tie
from the local drug store
He coasts along the brick-stone walk-ways
careful not to place his feet upon
cracks or cross a path with a black cat
A superstitious man he is
a white rabbits foot tucked beneath
his ankle socks
a turkey wishbone key-chain clanging against
his satin-lined pocket
and a four-leaf clover preserved in
saran-wrap pinned against his chest
With each stride
he nears the corner market
and purchases a pack of Perdomo
along with a bottle of unlabeled *****
concealing it bellow the buttons of the coat
He then exchanges with the cashier and exists
His journey leads him around the block
and passed pedestrians
only to be reunited with his stoop
The cold concrete is inviting
he sets himself in
on the third step
and prods his pockets
removing his lite and Perdomo's
for better
use
aflame they go
between crackled lips
Greeted with the sour beverage
his face molds like dry leather
crinkles and all
in reaction to the addicting
bitterness
His eyes pick out people from a crowd
the business man who hurries on by
to important to give a hoot
the youth of who laugh in mockery
yet to prideful to admit they're foolish
the tourist twisting the map above their face
searching corner streets a sign
the woman who bustles her child through
avoiding contact
with the man
who sits on the stoop
Not person goes by that
he wishes he were
he is perfect
perfectly content
in his subliminal life
The smoke rises and falls
from his throat
he wheezes
averting from his train of thought
it wasn't important either way
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
I feel like I'm living in a house
That has already been packed up.
Displaced things.
Confusing mazes.
Unlabeled boxes,
But never unable to find the *****
I'm too powerful to be open.
It's not secrets,
It's survival.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
I'm just an unlabeled mix CD.
Slightly scratched at the edges,
worn with the labors of love
and the empty rooms with the
twangs and bass of my soul
resonating off the wood panel walls
like they were midnight cathedral halls.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
the truest love: ask me about too perfect
this I believe:
that part of we humans
that intersects emotion
& memory retains a video
not frequently reviewed,
placed deep in an unlocked,
unlabeled chest of drawer
surrounded by keepsakes, hidden
letters, scribbled napkins and
a less-than-handful of stills,
plain poems of raw delicacy
infrequent summoned, preceded
by a stray, strong thot asking
no one but you, why now? what
was the trigger synapse?
the love, the being, blessed, cursed,
known by its call letters:
TOO PERFECT…
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:39 AM UTC
They read our unlabeled books
laughing every second
our minds erupt
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 10:09 AM UTC
Her memories
Envelop me
Popped confetti
Candy from a busted piñata
Weighing me down,
Packing peanuts
Suffocating my heart
Stronger than gravity
Crushing me,
Down into the depths
Of our past
A present unopened
Unlabeled card
Under the biggest bow,
Frilly string
The veins
To my soul
The sharper the scissors
That I can find,
To cut
To severe
To serrate
Samurai blade
Through silk,
Any blood spilt
Like water through rock,
The lightest of rouge
My eyes
Stained glass
Mosaics of her...
APAD13 - 132 © okpoet
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
I am a scarecrow unlabeled
hiding in the corn.
And there are miles of sky
from under which
this land like water flows.
It is my blanket and my goal
for out their no one calls the shots.
But driving endlessly to find that end
seems a futile dream.
There is not a place within this world
where tall or short, black or white,
comes to mean nothing.
The wheels from my Chevy
have rotted off in search,
chassis sunken into the ground.
I know that brand name
caused a spark to tag a word to me,
But I am forced to be
this crippled soldier
in this world of certainty.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
"A child may not be
considered a piece of property-
only the child possesses genuine rights
the Right to be respected as a person
from the moment of his conception"
He was born in the year 1964
A world on the brink of splitting open,
On the edge of revolution, progress, protest
The stained glass windows speckled from the rain
Incense and old wood covered in fingernail imprints
Matching those on the sides of his arms
A small choir singing hymns of Salvation and Praise
His mother nudges him "stand up straight, eyes forward"
A mind wandering from the homily on Sacrifice
To the images of bombings in Hamburg
Adorned with black and white collars
Gripping an unlabeled wine bottle
The children sprinted through the wooded trails
Mud spattering across their legs and dress shoes
The others spun in circles, as if trapped in jewelry boxes
Their ankles dressed in pink ribbons
This was no place for innocence and imagination
But one of penance and prayer
He kept his toy cars and trains in a green metal box under his bed
It wasn't much, but they were his
Through them locking him in the closet for hours
And being told to not speak unless spoken to
The times of self expression, of emotion, feeling
Shamed and forced suppression - turned to repression
These cars and trains, they were his
Mental illness is a myth
Suicide is a mortal sin
We decide who you are
You cannot feel
Kneel down
Be quiet
Say your prayers
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC
If it wasn't King James who said, "I'm going
To fiddle with the word of God for a bit",
Then
I don't know who did. Burning bushes
Or not I think he made some **** up
Just how Abraham almost offed Isaac.
It's a good thing the creator has a sense of
Humor because
Father’s all over would raise their arms
To the sky and sacrifice away their sons and only God knows who else.
The king was relentless, He didn’t mind
I could only bite my tongue when I wrote
Jonah was spit
To shore from the whale. The king just wouldn’t let
Me end it there.
I cringed when Mary birthed
The king of the world as a
******
It was hard for me not to laugh
Especially the part about forbidden fruit.
I even made up a story about
Rationalizing with wild
Lions
In a den but as long as you
Looked up you lived on.
One night I found an unlabeled scroll
That said he would come when heaven’s the heart
And earth’s
the body and the bones.
James burnt it that night while he drank his tea.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 4:23 PM UTC
Pull on one of the loose ends
Hanging with mystery
To unknot the two loops
Flaunting surprise
And untie the bow
That holds fast a box
Covered in paper-thin wrapper,
Fancy enough to be inviting,
Yet functional to be ripped up
So what's inside the carton
That has "fragile" all over it,
Sealed with adhesive tapes
That need careful unsticking
Or else the damaged goods,
Can at last be opened.
Now here you are,
A rare material,
Unprocessed as ever;
Unlabeled and unpriced.
Sold like a product in demand,
Given away like a free merchandise.
A special package,
A precious item
To be valued the most
For all its worth.
To every deserving owner,
You are a gift.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
Three words, seven syllables,
"Abandoned and Forgotten",
--- are the words expressing its situations,
Where places and people became blinded to be rotten
In a town, far, far away,
A location that cannot be searched
Rushing schemes like ocean waves,
Motown Era is a town, unlabeled, ever since its birth
Over a decade, the same problems whines and roars,
Like a graft of dawn, no berries shall bear
As thick as filthy layers of dust with sharp thorns,
Beholding the darkness of poor crimes that this town wears
Destiny's children, eight twilights of wonders,
They came to bless the southern area,
They believe in themselves, that this obstacle is what they need to--conquer,
Re-battling against all odds for the sake of Motown Era
By the whispers from the tightened pipes though their broken leaks
Eyes as clear and observant like a magnifying glass
Unbreakable stone-like-golden hands of the big sixteen,
How long will the suffering last?
Divided shades but each and everyone has different stances
Quick, eerie sounds are to be heard with fire-proof antenna
Nevertheless, every types of particles deserves second chances,
Introducing to you the desperate map-reacher,
The town of Motown Era
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 4:47 AM UTC
We were definitely something
We are this unlabeled and undefined mess
We had a relationship worth dreaming
There was no 'us' but we had realness
What we had was called almost
We shared what people desire
We tried to last with our outmost
But distance extinguished the fire
We had what some envied
We were perfectly unlabeled and unknown
We were bulletproof but we still bleed
I wasn't yours and I couldn't call you my own
What do I call you, how do I explain us?
You're my ex something, my ex almost, my ex unstable
My ex unnamed, my ex unknown, my ex anonymous
To put it simply, since we are undefined, you are my "x variable"
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 8:20 AM UTC
i wonder
why we feel
a sense
of entitlement
for things
or even for people
we don't even want.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
You don't fully understand what goes on inside my head.
It is a torrent of confusion, thoughts, and visions.
I have my world, and you have yours.
It might get easier, but you need to understand how foolish you sounded.
You spoke to me as though I was a child!
A GULLIBLE child!
I know people lie or speak before they think,
I know I cant believe everything I see,
I know that the world is twisted and ****** up!
And I read enough and see enough to put two and two together.
I'm disappointed. You told me you were
Inspired to not get mad about others' beliefs.
I don't know what you meant by it, but it sounds
Biased to me.
You told be you see beauty in everything,
But I don't think you do. You don't look at everything.
You assume.
Do you know anything about me?
I haven't even begun to explain!
My lifelong fears,
The isolation I've suffered most of my life,
My ability to see others for who they really are.
My search for whats right.
My search for my unlabeledviews
Because they're the only thing that makes any sense!
You're different, I know,
But your eyes are still the same.
I love you. I do.
But you really need to see me before you judge.
I tried to, but you didn't really let me.
Now its your turn.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
I age my poems
in dark musty cellar
'till they mellow and moan
begging to be brought to light
I bury them there
in oaken casks, stained purple
flavoring them full of
funky terroir
Abandoned on a shelf in
old green glass
imprisoned by cork
unlabeled
I age my poems
banished 'till rhyme ripens
in dim hopes one day
they'll tickle someone's tongue
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
*Poetry invalidated paranoia
and made it real within
It was good for some
It was bad for some
It was ‘poetry just’
for some*
the latter did not want to know poetry as such
Nature as poetry
needs no validation
Poetry as nature
needs validation
not for poetry - not for its nature - not for us
but by Us
Us - have shelves
Shelves have reserved space
once unorganized - once unlabeled
Confusion it creates
but Dear
there is no label today
and there never will be
not because we are outta paper
not because those shelves are dusty
Shelves exist not
for nature and its ways
there is not a single name
to be issued to…
and there never will be
all names are us
us a symbol just
make it holy
because
when at now only
we are free
and
We turned the age already
Here we stand
at an empty page
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC