"unrecognisable" poems
I have seen this town grow
through the tides of my time,
to the low and call of the market men,
to all of my drinks laced with lime.
The cracks form in concrete,
as they do to my aging face,
but never are the streets unrecognisable.
No, here, I can always find a place.
And the clock tower calls,
just to signify the passing day,
oh, all of life’s sorrow falls
to the saying: “come what may.”
I know you all, I’ve seen you crawl
through these jobs; waiting tables,
pouring wine, and shooting pool
in the stagnant afternoons;
claiming your past as part of mine.
Rupert Brooke is now but a name,
some archaic poet of yesterday.
His name now naught but of drinking fame,
as all the customers line up to pay.
Oh, I miss my childhood, old friends now past,
only stark reminders that nothing is built to last.
I need you now, my lifelong friend;
to my soul, give warmth,
to my heart, please mend.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
The colours are not colours.
This must be a shock,
For what are they if they are not colours?
Well, colours are only colours when hit by the right light at the right moment,
But even then we all see them differently
The night is evidence of this
You look at a colour upon the light
And all you see is its representation
A beautifully hand-crafted lie
Somebody crafted these colours into it,
Magnificently sure...
But if you look upon this colour
Once the black of the night has fallen
And drained away the world
You will see
Not pretty, bright red's and blue's of innocence
But the black's and grey's of life
No matter how hard you can look
The colours will have changed,
Twisted and morfed into something unrecognisable.
A lie
This is the true truth of a colour
...It is a lie
One designed to lighten and highten
And to create the fear of truth
A concoction of the human world,
Wrought to fool and impress
To impose and to play
Playing a game that they themselves don't understand
One of tricks and illusions
One to keep you up all night writing
Simple things with lying words
Everything is a lie,
Hell, even a lie is a lie
Because when Earth is no longer fit for mankind
The sun stops spinning
And the understand of anything
We mere humans have accomplished to comprehend
Is gone
This is when everything will be nothing
There will be no nothings to interpret
Not even a few measley words
Strewn together with mace and lace
They will amount to nothing,
And yet,
The colours.
Stop to see the colours
The same ones
That lie in wait for the light
To jump and give you a fright
For one day
When the night view is never ending
You wont have the glory of being fooled or illuded
And that is the greatest part of life
That life does not really matter
So why not see what's not really there
While we still can
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
I am the ghost
of a girl you once claimed to love;
my dead hands
*reaching,
asking,
begging*
for a piece of your soul
to wallow in forever.
There will come a time when you are sick
of trying to understand my mind
and my wrists.
I was never myself when I did this.
If I were part of the ocean
I would be the shallows;
the cold tide that people walk all over
*reaching,
asking,
begging*
to pull people in
but never getting close enough.
I was never myself when I did that.
I plead,
help me live once again
as something new born and blind;
blind to the atrocities of humanity,
but all seeing to life and love.
Love,
the only thing that could ever constitute
as sacred;
a relentless, chemical energy
that turns you in to a fool in all the right ways.
A substance more intelligent
than any apparent genius.
Oh, how the love
*reaches,
asks,
begs*
to confine me,
and oh, sweet love;
how I let you fill my lungs.
I was never myself when I was with you.
I’ve held hands with pain,
kissed every frozen fingertip
and I found my worship in ethanol and ash
before I found it in between
your lips and mine.
You changed me in all the worst ways,
causing me to start a war with my skin,
causing me to see my own reflection
as something unrecognisable,
something I never wanted to be.
I was never myself.
I made the mistake of building a home
out of a human being
and he was so riddled with wanderlust;
a nomadic masterpiece who couldn’t stay,
but should’ve stayed.
I’ve never felt so homesick.
I’m tired of tearing away my skin
and revealing the heart inside me
to people that are incapable of loving anything
other than themselves
and their sadness.
I crave for someone
to look at me as though
they can see my soul
more than they can see my skin.
I crave for someone
to see
what I wish to see.
More than anything,
I crave to see me:
*strong,
magnificent,
and beautiful.*
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
I want to dig out this beating heart
with my palm and dig my fingernails into it,
squeezing till its unrecognisable,
and see blood overflowing on my skin,
the contrast of the thick red liquid against paleness,
and feel the physical sensation it'd cause,
a painful kind of release,
of a different kind of ecstasy.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
*She is more
than what meets the eye,
She is a pending rainbow
that's hiding behind the clouds
in the sky.
She is a warm pocket
in a cold, deep ocean,
She is a virtual art form,
She is poetry in motion.
She is thunder and lightning
in a perfect blue horizon,
She is a delicate wildflower
growing in a plush green field,
one that is mesmerising.
She is an unexpected smile
on a lonely day,
She is instant relief
when things aren't going
your way.
She is a suprising hint of sweetness
when you are expecting
something sour,
She is a timeless friend,
She is an immortal flower.
She is more
than what meets the eye,
She is a breath of fresh mountain air, causing one to exhale a relieving sigh.
She is full of substance,
empathy, wisdom and kindness,
She contains infinite layers
of universes beneath her skin,
all of which are unrecognisable
to the naked eyes that suffer from "metaphorical" blindness.
By Lady R.F. (C)2017*
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
the cracks in the mirror
start to show
makeup morning
clown
becomes the show
unrecognisable face
made up to be
someone you know
still laughing
just not sure at what anymore
Feb 6, 2022
Feb 6, 2022 at 2:34 PM UTC
self destruction like burning bridges you know full well you'll drown without
being reckless with your rafts and your lifesavers
and feeling the heat of the fire prickle your forehead,
beads of sweat teasing your skin
and making it impossible to ignore the deep water already lapping at your feet,
clearly prepared to completely engulf you in liquid darkness.
self destruction like inhaling the fumes of a hundred toxic promises,
made to you by old would-be lovers;
sugarcoated words and lies roughly covered in white,
feeling the poison seizing up your struggling lungs,
fingertips flicking through dictionaries with cracked spines:
desperate to find a word that isn't even there.
self destruction like breaking hearts that aren't yours for once,
just to hold the power of corruption and allow it to make you bloodthirsty,
much like slaughtering ants beneath magnifying glasses,
watching them struggle and turn to unrecognisable ashes,
whimpering half hearted apologies whilst trying to convince yourself
that you are not a bad person, but simply a broken soul.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Imprisoned
by boundaries of time
lost moments slip away
into an eternal abyss
wandering
outside the mind
alone
unable to wonder
where only infinity
and truth reside
unrecognisable
amidst the elemental
molecules of matter.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
And I wander why I'm here
And your there and there's nowhere inbetween for us to go
And why if there was
You couldn't take me anyway.
Wind mills in our skulls
So fast we can't get a grasp on.
Pretty pills
As we stare out
Of barred windowsills
You tell me you don't understand,
as you hold my hand and demand to know why.
And I sit and cry and tell you I wish you could, I wish you understood
But how can I expect you too
When I have no clue?
Cos your mind isn't fractured
Into hundreds of unrecognisable pieces
Creases
That they try to iron out
And glue together with
Sedatives and weight gain
And cognitive behavioural therapy
That they insist will numb the pain
&fix; the problem.
But i don't know the problem
Because I've skipped in and out of diagnoses ever since i was
Placed into this space
A taste of hell and heaven all at the same time
Where it's okay not to be okay
But it's not okay to be okay
And you get named and blamed and excused and used as examples
For nurses to observe
You're a learning curve
In their degree. Or for a student studying psychology
And no matter what anyone says
It doesn't curb the reality
That you are sick.
Too sick to take care of yourself
To keep safe your health
Your body, your mind
To hold yourself
Together,
An it's strange because
They try to rearrange
All our thoughts and processes
But they don't undress the primary cause
They caress plaus-able reasons
Excluding your explanations
Satisfied with their own gratifications.
2013 ©
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
**Chasing cheaters cursed to be caught.
Willfully writing words you've wrought.**
*I'm not angry.
If it shows.
But then again.
Who knows?*
A bludgeoned heart that beats no longer. Dare I describe the cause?
Standing there with white thread soaked in a ****** pause.
I guess I know where it all went, because my heart has none.
If it were a cost I'd write it off.
If it were hours labored they'd be lost.
If it were words given in confidence id give into the embarrassment.
But my heart rewired its self before you cut the strings and now I'm bent like a slinky with 5 ends that lead no where.
I have this image of an unrecognisable figure standing proud. Dressed in my hope and wrapped in my desire. She wears my dress and he will never know. If I keep my tongue tight. Their love might just grow.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
*Small leaf with the veins colours purple
Falls upon the pale skin of mine
Like a drop from the sky
It becomes bigger at impact
Purple greeting blue like a friend
The veins of the leaf now unrecognisable
Looking like a plum to bitter to eat
Beautiful colour
Horrifying meaning
Leafs from the branches of the black tree
With it's evil shading it's world
Sending it's leafs to fall on the weak
The 'loved' one of theirs...
Small leafs with veins coloured purple
Beautiful when fallen on pale skin of mine
But small leafs is what I tell myself
To forget the purple truth called pain...*
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Young friends,
both in our health and hearts.
Lets remember this day,
As we all are now.
In the years to come,
We will all be gone,
One by one.
Some of us earlier,
Some of us later.
So lets remember this day,
As we all are now,
Content and happy in each others company.
Disease, Illness or the years may ravage some of us,
Cruelly rob us of our wits, memories and senses.
To leave us unrecognisable from our former selves,
So vulnerable without our defences.
But lets remember this day,
As we all are now.
Content and happy in each others company,
While time and age may grace us on its lunar stage.
Yet a few may go on and be blessed by the years,
Knowing only good fortune and nothing of tears.
To grow old with your sweetheart and depart with your girl,
We wish you no ill will but all the luck in the world.
For lets remember this day,
As we all are now.
Content and happy in each others company,
While time and age may grace us on its lunar stage.
And our future was just a spinning die, which had not yet fallen.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC
In perpetual solitude I linger in the shadows.
Fragmented in which pieces to me are unbeknownst... unrecognisable.
Am I who I was or am I nothing but a memory of what I once were? Something other than me. A corrupted part of my insanity.
Maybe I am nothing more than lifeless flesh, rotting in perpetual solitude.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
sand sand sand sand sand sand
i think my mind is disintegrating
i might
**** myself
it probably began before i was born
in the beginning there was nothing
and the world was perfect
then i came into the world
and read lots of articles at university
because
i wanted a good grade
but the world began to fuzz at its edges
i’d drift back to the flat
and stare at all the objects in my room
unable to understand them
most of the time i hate myself
it’s one of the few emotions
i have left
i had this 4500 word assignment
but every time i went to type it up
my words came out, out of order
a string of unrecognisable
broken symbols
a mangled image of my own
stupid head
i came to the conclusion
i was
having a mental breakdown
the other month i
sat in the city mall
and
stared at all the passing people
in their most mundane moments
and thought
this is the rest of my life
this stupid, pointless repetition
i watched people rise on an escalator
faces fixed blankly on
the space in front of them
as if they weren’t there at all
i watched seagulls poke at one another
and squawk into the ground
and thought
there is more life in them
than us
i didn’t want to be a **** up again
i would try to read over
what’d i’d written
for hours on end
until i was shaking, on the edge of tears
unable to understand why this was happening to me
i’d lie in bed
and think about the infinite worthless stretch of my life
feeling only an untraceable anxiety
deep in the pit of
my flesh
for the longest time
i thought all this anxiety and fear
came from without
that if i learned about existence enough
i could
excise all the bad parts out
but something in my head broke
something i couldn’t
control
maybe some part of me wanted this to happen
so i’d have a reason
to die.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
A door in the mind blows open -
It floods with grey matter
And hot stares.
Ashes of darkness
Coupled with
Tears of growth
This is incomparable.
Roller-coaster rides
And unrecognisable mirrors;
We've steeped into a portal of surrealism:
With sins and judgement calls that question
The very essence of our hearts.
I really do not want to grow up.
I'm a pair of pigtails who can't
Climb up a step.
Push me, push me, but I can't reach.
When I feel my faith restored
In the overlap
Of green scenes and dental dexterity -
I can only think of one line to combust me:
"He's just being nice."
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
in the glow of the moon she shines
her silhouette everchanging as she moves
the lights reflect her eyes
her skirt flows in the wind
in the shadows of the forest she shines
her body so still as she looks back at me
there's beauty in her smile, and danger
a flicker of something unknown
in the abyss of space she shines
her claws outstretched to meet me
her eyes are so different now
in her cold grip i still feel her warmth
on unfamiliar ground she shines
her silhouette unrecognisable to me now
feathers and tentacles, claws and fangs
my heart is still hers
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 7:40 PM UTC
on the phone
you talk and talk until suddenly
you say you're going to let me go.
i stare out empty, filling in images
over the blank wall, it's became a sort of ritual as of late;
the vague daydreams are bound to crumble back to memory
some way or another
if not wear it's bite marks like tiny wounded flags
i let grow swollen. i only wish you never changed me like you did. i remember gathering rugburnt rashes
on our underthighs, making each other's jaws twitch
with the electric heater as our modern day campfire.
it's a good day for a warm shower, to burn my skin red and peel an unrecognisable face out of the mirror, a clense, a diy baptism;in the aftermath: i showered as many times as i had to,
i saw the outcome miles away (it was a certainty any time i dared to speculate on the possibility)
O why am i so sickened ?
i had to figure out if i had any right to be
and the days dragged on so long.
your eyes glowed like chasms once,
they've grown oxidated and cold since.
i hope i've done my part to change you too.
Sometimes I've felt like a pawn being puppeteered to trapeze a thin string,
Knowing for sure that I'm drawing a noose but waiting to know who it's for.
Feb 29, 2024
Feb 29, 2024 at 3:54 PM UTC
These images ask you to forget everything that might be construed as ‘of landscape’, because they are not. They are of the mind’s reflection: that closing of the eyes which brings something often unseen, certainly unrecognisable, to the back of the retina. It’s illusory, dreamlike - even though one is awake. The images defy formal categorization. They are not ‘like’ anything, and even if one makes an attempt at describing a mark, a fold, a ridge, a texture, a colour as ‘like’, it is wholly unsatisfactory. What you see carries with it emptiness of association, probably because things that you might describe won’t connect. So don’t. Let them lie there on painted linen cloth. Uneasy. The six cloths hang from two nails apiece, no fancy frame or fitting, two silvered nails, bang! hard into the wall. Watching very acutely they move so slightly under the air conditioning’s breath. A infinity of sadness lies upon their surfaces. Once sewn there could be no unsewing those marks made; and all that painting over and over, but the trace of a needle there always there. The full form, the total image scours the memory. These pieces seem to deny the sun, the action of weather; they have been removed from the continuum of nature and become preserved. The process of making and creating has entombed them. They absorb and reflect nothing except a waste of loneliness.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
Fruit uneaten to the seed,
A glance at the heavens
Halting inescapable rot,
Here it lays brown and withered.
A chronic flicker of a lamp
In the corner of the room
A temperament that festers
Frustrated at the change of endeavours,
Waning moons missing pieces,
Resentful, longing for the sun
Indescribable hunger for a glimmer
over torrential nights,
Yearning like a fire
Begs to be fed
Reaching out to darkness
The bed, now half slept.
Restlessness crawls within bones
A tormenting
Unrelenting
Wind in the cold,
A soft low hum within the safety of four
Walls,
An unrecognisable sound
Without an ear, joyful to be here at all.
Fruit will soon bitter with frosty mornings,
Unnurtured,
I plant myself in grounds
Sullen with the season.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 4:51 PM UTC
My neighbours have a half empty bottle of ***** sitting on their windowsill
If I close my eyes hard enough, I swear I can smell you.
I can taste the names of the pretty girls you kissed when you were high and I was alone,
And sometimes the voice in my head repeats your name over and over until it is nothing more than an unrecognisable sound. That's how I like it. Unrecognisable.
I have been very lonely since you told me she was pregnant
sometimes I can't sleep cos my mattress feels cold,
and I stay up all night talking to the men who live under my bed. They comfort me.
I text you the same message 18 times "please don't leave me. I will die."
("Leave me alone. There is nothing more for me to say to you" )
Mum tells me that all men will leave you when you need them most.
I think you left me long after I became dependant on you.
It is hard for me to breathe under all this soil
My room smells of unrequited love and stale promises.
You are still kissing other girls when you are high.
There are still bite marks on my thigh.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
The heart beats the sludge through the body
while the mind waits to collect more subsistence
feeding and gorging itself
Always wanting more, because it's never full
It's not sludge that the heart beats
It's anger, constant anger, just pushing through the body
the mind sits feeding and gorging itself
not realising that it's become something ugly and unrecognisable
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 4:52 PM UTC
He awoke and found himself
inside the body of another.
Safe in the darkness
gentle amniotic arms held him whilst muffled voices dictate his fate
“You’re having a girl” they exclaimed,
and he lay, wondering what this meant.
He awoke and found himself
inside the words of another.
Inside the “brother” he never was, rather than never had
and the “boy” that scuffed his knees in adventure.
He awoke and found himself
“a pretty girl”, “a princess”, “just like her mother”
so he closed his eyes and dreamt of another.
A world of train-sets and barber shops,
birthday candle wishes to replace long, curly locks
he awoke, and found himself floating
in space
his face, unrecognisable in the mirror.
His chest seemed to grow branches
as if by night the doctors that had pulled him from her womb
had suddenly discovered his secret.
They grew like thorns until they were all he could see.
Those and the other boys, s h a t t e r i n g jigsaw piece body parts
every time he looked at them.
He wondered why when their voices deepened, it was called a voice
break and not a gift.
A broken larynx. A birthday present lost in the post,
instead he unwrapped their super glued puzzle pieces,
piling them onto his plate
if you eat your vegetables, you’ll grow up to be a man.
“You’re having a girl”, more like “You can pass go but you will never collect 200 dollars”.
“You’re having a girl”, more like “earthquakes will erupt inside your mind every time you hear the words
“She”, “Her”, “Sister”
“You’re having a girl”, but he was
“He”, “His”, “Mister”.
And when he cut his hair, and found himself
in the arms of over-sized t-shirts and grown out leg hair,
they would say
“you look like a boy”, as if they expected him to protest in offence
but his heart feels as warm as the breeze that blows through thornless branches of trees
and he wants to say thank you.
He wants to say that the words
“You look like a boy” manage to stitch up his jigsaw piece body parts,
for these are the words that cut through his mothers dresses and threw away the thread
these, are the words that in time would cause his voice to break;
remind him that he is not broken
and bury his girlhood beneath his bed.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
passions were my strong point. every breath lined with a deeper meaning that makes you embrace any emotion including sadness is a blessing.
i can sit and stare at the clouds endlessly. distance myself from human infestation, so i can spend some time alone marvelling the cosmic manifestation.
i read books, conjure up worlds and press pages with fragile paper wings that let me fly in the summer air making me feel as light as a butterfly.
i stay up at nights and end up painting faces of unrecognisable angels and demons that live inside my head. i'm constantly torn between prose and poetry. one lets me live, and the other helps me to get lost.
i am a girl living on wishbones and rusted blood. a girl covered in an ever-glowing soil. a girl toiled with ashes. but i am reborn every time a part of me is scathed. i reappear till i'm completed.
till i'm finite because i was held by strong points:
passions.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC