"unscorned" poems
Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.
Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal. I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.
Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.
Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.
Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!
Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.
Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.
Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.
Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.
Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Twas the night I saw a ghost,
A morbid little peace of hope.
He did his dance, he said his words,
He knew however, None his worth.
He haunted till the early morn,
The dreams of dreamers,
Their lives unscorned.
He knew not why
or what he did,
Just the job
was a burden of his.
He walked alone,
Through the crowd,
He drank alone,
In company.
From house to home,
From world to wide.
His journey the same,
The passengers alight.
His life so real,
His dreams untrue.
His bowed endower,
Didn't mean much to you.
But when you did,
See his sliver.
He was gone,
A hope, a Quiver.
A light too lost,
To your darkness still.
A prayer unanswered,
The hopeless kin.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
Have I made an impression? No,
a real, lasting, stuck in your mind, remember me in 50 years type impression?
Or just a summer breeze that you long to touch your face but can't remember the circumstances that put you there?
I want to be an imprint.
A stamp inside your head, a fully encompassed, laced part of your mental DnA(thanks, Mo)
A silly song that is always on repeat never on random
That is where I want my picture to be inside your cerebral cortex.
Permanent, stained, taunting, undisturbed
I am selfish for this request
I lay awake in the day wishing this were not my wish
But the pain is obvious, the need even greater and the desire unbearable.
Cannot justify ...moreso cannot deny
I ask to be lifted with such intensity that I ask to never come down again
All just by this conversation with you, whomever it is that you may be.
I sink, deeper and deeper into the realm of untruth to the point that it may have become a reality.
I am transparent, so is this, the fluidness of inspiration is so hard to resist
I urge honesty without the brutality
And nakedness without the sexuality
Desire without the vulgarity
Love without the unnecessary
I welcome you
To me
Undone and unscorned
open
sweet
gentle
enlightened!
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
Beauty, soft as morning light,
a golden glow, a breath so bright.
It lingers sweet on petals fair,
a whispered song that stirs the air.
It rests in laughter, light and free,
the way the waves embrace the sea.
In fleeting glimpses, lovers’ sighs,
the stars reflected in one’s eyes.
It lives in youth, in uncreased skin,
the way a tale of love begins.
It hums in silks, in mirrored glass,
a spell we chase but cannot grasp.
But beauty’s hands are laced with thread,
of woven myths and words unsaid.
The colors shift, the echoes fade,
and shadows creep where light once played.
They carve the lines upon our face,
remind us all: this is a race.
The painted lips, the powdered cheeks,
a mask we wear, afraid to speak.
The whispers turn to cries at night,
"Be softer, smaller, more polite."
"Be brighter, bolder, never old."
"Be worth the weight of all this gold."
The hunger grows, the mirror calls,
distorted truth in silver walls.
The scales, the numbers, counting sins,
a war where no one truly wins.
The rose is crushed beneath the hand
that once adored its beauty grand.
What once was soft turns sharp and cruel,
a hollow voice, a hollow rule.
And so the petals drift away,
the laughter lost in yesterday.
But beauty never learned to stay—
it flits, it fades, it slips away.
Yet in the ruin, something new,
beyond the glass, beyond the view—
a beauty raw, untouched by chains,
not drawn by hands, nor bound by names.
A beauty real, unshaped, unscorned,
not bought, nor sold, nor torn, nor worn.
Not weight, nor skin, nor youth, nor face—
but fire, wild, and full of grace.
Feb 17, 2025
Feb 17, 2025 at 3:54 PM UTC