"unsoiled" poems
Rivers of Babylon flows on biceps
Hairly face, pin nose of unmade make up
Sparks beauty in her lonely sky face
Which suitors commit adultery in words
For wishes of closeness, I wish in millions in one day
Time only divide us, but our soul are conjugated
On a plain of misty air, how beautiful and sad it is
Our wishes drown us onto the path of loneliness
Did you see loneliness my love ?
But why I can't see it my love ?
How about our God ?
I am in your vast blue sky,
and every night I am sleeping in your warm heart
Filling the gap that resides in me
For all my breathe belongs to you
My days of soil and unsoiled cloaks you in me
I love your hands...دست های تو را دوست دارم for they are divine
In it does the words of love burn like the sun
Making the lonely persian jasmine smile
As the gulf waves secret writing on your heart
I Belteshazzar love the writing till the end of my life
Solemn steel avouch with sun and water
Yet the loose their beauty crying to the air for help
Humans without their eyes are still beautiful
So their loneliness become a persian jewelry
Written by
Martin Ijir
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
embedded in the most tenebrous corner of my mind,
harlequin memories of serendipity,
dripping like bittersweet wine,
tantalize me,
begriming what was once an unsoiled canvas.
engulfed in my despondency,
I repose homely
until my mind's taste-buds
savor the saccharine flavors
of its own derisive thoughts.
aroused to say the least,
my mind's libido is now being satisfied.
I lie here,
welcoming all that my thoughts and epiphanies have to offer.
I am unable to disclose what's bestowed to me
but that's irrelevant.
My mind is here...
and open
and anticipating
the pleasing rush
of these thoughts that venture through my head.
The pleasure is overwhelming,
forcing my chakras open
as my ajna awakens from its long slumber.
I crave this foreplay
and I plead with the universe
to make it never-ending
but it seems my cries fall upon deaf ears
and I'm left open-minded
and unfinished.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
I’m an apricot , ripe on the tree - ready for picking
I am a cherry , offering to be popped
3 tequila shots or the equivalent of a blurred memory inside me
my heart is bleeding a little at the acts my body is moving through
i am bleeding a little at the acts my body is moving through
i bleed for 4 days , 5 days.
i am amazed that he pulled out. i find that incredible -
as if a man is wild in the act of mergence and unable to control himself ,
ideas of male/female roles imprinted on me
from parents , **** and public school - where girls are made into women
at 13 ,
we discuss when we will “lose our virginity” i say 15 if i’m ready (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
i should expect him to *** inside me , because i am the subservient woman and he should do as he pleases
i think it magical his heightened awareness -
i see his majestic beauty on his well formed muscles
and the hotel room his family owns , or the kick *** motorbike he drives and the supply of beachfront joints.
and still it is now 1 year later that i am in pain.
a fire on my heart and a sick feeling in my stomach
i am sick because i swallowed the lies and hated myself , i truly believed i was worth that level of respect. the fire burns swiftly in my heart because i am enraged and sorrowful at my ignorance. I am partly ashamed at my lack of empathy
for myself and partly in awe at my magnificence.
We look at virginity as pure , unsoiled.
Pure. Unsoiled.
**** Subconsciously telling our mothers , sisters , aunties and grandma’s that they are ***** for exercising their basic ****** function. Shaming us for feeling pleasure.....the connotations are different for brothers , fathers , uncles and grandpas. A pat of well done on the back , you are now a “man”.............well .. i’ll be ****** it amazes me how these sly , low blows are hidden right in plain sight.
well fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk that !
I know i love myself now
with the respect i would rain down upon any other fellow being .
i wish : for them and me to be able to love without fear, disgust and shame.
i wish to allow my energy from that moment to feed others who need help along their path of self-love.
Now my cosmic womb is treated with respect and reverence
enjoying myself freely.
Oh but , i will say thank you , and a sensi bow , for the lesson learnt.
Never again will i put others on a pedestal they have not earnt.
Especially if it has anything to do with my *****
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
and something reminding us
this is like all other moving days;
finding the ***** ends of someone else's life,
hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,
and burned-out matches in the corner;
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day. . .
in ordering our lives, we will discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.
And we have plans that will not tolerate
our fears-- a year laid out like rooms
in a new house--the dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves
sagging with heavy winter books.
Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of books and food,
anxious as we always are in winter,
and looking for the Good Life we have made.
I see myself then: tense, solemn,
in high-heeled shoes that pinch,
not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,
but looking back to now and seeing
a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl
in a bare room, full of promise
and feeling envious.
Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward
into the future--as if, when the room
contains us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.
The room will not change:
a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint
won't make much difference;
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath our suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.
I look forward and see myself looking back.
3.8k
a lone something in the sky
flies near, just by mischance
dazed by the smog,
bowing
and diving
downward
into the parting, cracking,
quaking
bellowing of tar
from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps
eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps
of the earth diverging and converging
into the debt of always running clean,
running me
always downward,
as in the deep
deep
tessellations of rock
I become.
too still for my own good,
I guess –
another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of
breath to fill the mosaic
of sinewy
stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone
plating into the deep,
deep,
deeper caverns of the unseen sea
slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention,
as an echo caving downward into
nothing,
nothing,
more
nothing
polluting the depths from the palisades,
scripture rupturing lowshore into
surrounding tissues like
igneous stone
dreams of clinks ringing,
of noise
a voice
on the ash-flow tuffs
in the always running-clean water
the purity of which I intercept,
the clear-ness of it;
a sinners window.
through what's left,
I see the clam
another mouth for and of the sea
unseen,
the pearl
as unsoiled as ever
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC
I am flabbergasted, ashamed, and angry after philosophy homework
which straight up flabbergasts myself because I’ve always questioned everything
after reading a selection of Seneca’s letter’s ( ancient spanish philosopher)
Spastic Fury is an understatement
I understand this was written in a different time period
but I have to discuss this **** in class.
**** like why crying is for the weak or
how practicing habits less fortunate
than one is subordinate to
will strengthen thy noble soul for future preparation of fortune/misfortune
blah blah blah
I get all of that **** I understand the validity of living a pure,
un-judgemental, strong willed life.
what I can’t get out of my OCD head
is all of the **** I’ve been through
that was and continues to be detrimental to my sanity
and no it’s not out of vanity you naive ******
it’s called PTSD and it can be debilitating.
I know this portion of reading is designed for
the average freshman unsoiled mind, free from
trauma and full of promise but I’m not your average person.
I never will be
I remember the times I didn’t want to be a ******* person
and those moments remain anchored right on top of my mangled innocence.
Seneca claims crying is a form of selfish weakness
I claim crying is stronger than taking a razor to the skin
crying is stronger than puking until you’re dizzy
crying is stronger than getting high until you can’t
remember why you started crying
in the first place
It took me 17 years and disgusting amounts of therapy
to accept my hurricane emotions are not a form of weakness
because everything I feel is a million times more real
than the ******** we hear, see, or talk about
I know tragedy occurs everywhere to anyone
unfortunate enough to be there
but in terms of my salvation
there is an expiration date on
how long I can play in the sand before I’m choking
and gasping “i’m sorry’s” in-between scratchy breaths
I knew college would be hard,
but at least in group therapy
there was actual motivation to speak up
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
I feel
Used up
Cleaned out
Thrown away
Cast aside
Discarded
Exploited
Exploited
Exploited
Like twenty-two years
Of making myself a beautiful person
Was only for others to grab at
And pilfer
At will.
I never knew my pleasure
Was at the whim of animals
Of worms and wolves and vultures.
I never knew I had to ask
Permission
To live my life unsoiled.
May I?
May I be loved?
May I be appreciated and accepted?
May I trust?
May I have sole ownership of my body?
Someone pillaged my temple.
It is now closed
For demolition
And subsequent reconstruction.
It will be rebuilt
With steel bars and security guards.
No longer do I love freely and unabashedly.
No longer do I trust others
Or myself.
I have sewn my own head
Back into place
To stick my neck out again.
I now wear the stitches
As a trophy
As a medal
As a warning
As a threat
That I will never let you befriend me
I will never let you touch me
I will never let you in
I will never let you close
I will never let you hurt me
I will never let you **** me
Again.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
My Darling, My Dearest
I sink to the dirt,
My regrets swirl around my body like a brides wedding dress.
White lace, virginal unsoiled regrets lay about me lazily-
biting my ankle, scratching up my legs to be held.
My Cherished Treasure,
I will carry my torment like an old man carries his walking stick
Gnarled with time and miles,
before any step I will take-
My regret will mark the path.
And I will walk for all of time with my walking stick. I will walk until I bend over in a broken bridge of bones, all the while letting my regret lead me onward.
My Beloved,
I will wallow in the mud of my sorrows and grief
I will roll and dry, caking dirt on my belly-
like the beast I have become.
My Beautiful,
The wounds that mortification of the flesh will produce-
will be sorry attempts to understand your pain.
The whip braided in tight thick leather
but I can never cut deep so I might
produce enough depth so instead will I bleed-
another sin, another crime!
I cannot feel your suffering-can only guess at the depth.
Oh the endlessly black waters of your sorrow!
I hold my breath, stones piled deep in my pockets.
I dive, I dive...wanting, needing this sacrifice.
But **** this survivalist in me. My lungs betray me-
sputter and cough.
I inhale my water of my sins and breathe them deep so I may drown and
free you from the shackles of my crimes.
My Cherished one, my Shining one-
Forgive this old sinner, forgive this reprobate heart.
For I love you.
When the stars exploded, when universes expanded
I loved you.
When the first blade of grass poked it's willful head above soil,
I loved you.
When first Adam kissed Eve,
I already loved you.
In the next life where you are caterpillar and
I am stump,
I love you then too, and beg you use me to reach closer the sun.
Forgive a fool his foolish ways, he knows no better
Forgive me, cherished one
and let me love you,
Let me love you as the faulted love the Divine. As the sinner loves the penance, as the child loves the stars.
Let me give you the moon, let me put it in on your lips.
So you may kiss the moon, beloved, kiss the moon.
Sahn 7/6/14
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
In his seasons passing words wither and fade with the sunsets reprise.
These images paint portraits with grey backdrops tattered, twisted throwing stones across the pond only to hear them vanish in the dark waters below.
All the pretty flowers fully in bloom untouched by earth and unsoiled in the dirt of corruption of an existence lived in regret.
Bitter pills and torn pages have we not traded are truths to be lies created for are own protective womb of deceit to fulfill our ego.
All the pretty flowers wither just the same.
As standing skeletons left only to haunt the backdrop of our thoughts decay.
Are we not monsters?, Who once stood as men with great views whose vices consumed them turning us into something we can barely recognize ourselves.
Soil once fertile now seems only scorched a barren square of emptiness once were all things did grow.
All the pretty flowers mourn springs passing this concrete idealism for which no direction seems to suit us best.
I stand where here no longer will anything grow.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
I’ve abandoned my home for a journey I have not yet discovered
to the friends behind me fear not for my life
but for the life I could have led
on a bed forced into a corner
swaddled in childhood blankets that clung to my skin
like each tear from a empty nested mother
cry for the path not traveled
rejoice in the odyssey of my heart
think of me against the pale blue skies of mountains
beneath the growing timber of earths design
pity the splintering bones in my feet
but not the destination they’ve run towards
I’ve jumped from one luminous point to the next
cradled by the crevasse of the moon
watching my shoes etch themselves into unsoiled mud
which someday I will hang as proof
I did not agree to be silent and still
the world was not big enough to contain my wonder
I will watch myself rise to the challenge of being alive
or fall into the jagged gravel of being human
my scars will only create a map of where I have been
and where I will go
and when I return you may ponder if I am the same
the answer is already against the tip of your tongue
I braved the sun to find it didn't burn me
one path may bleed to the next
my steps from home may become further
but fear not for me
only for the life that I could have led
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 1:52 AM UTC
Today might be the day it all becomes too much
The day I grow tired of scratching at this wound
Digging deeper and deeper, scratching until my fingers are raw
Pulling at my skin, pulling myself apart
Pulling at these twisted tendrils,
hoping to finally strip them away
Hoping that there is still something salvageable
and I wonder: what if nothing is left unsoiled underneath it all?
Is today the day it all becomes too much?
The day I grow tired of obsessing
Obsessing over every thought in my mind or move I make
Obsessing to the point that I find no rest
Spending every waking and sleeping moment dissecting every situation
Only to find that I am helpless to change what has already happened
and the actions of others
Still I wonder: was it something I did?
Is today the day it all becomes too much?
The day I grow tired of the ugliness
An ugliness I carry and see in the world around me
Nothing seems worth hanging onto for another aching second
As I confront myself and am forced to look in my own eyes each day
I grow more tired of being in this skin
so I pick at it again and again
Longing to hurt myself, to feel any pain but the pain of existing
Still I wonder: would they be better off without me?
Is today the day it all becomes too much?
The day I grow tired of trying
Trying to find meaning in a life centered on meaninglessness
Trying to keep smiling when my heart and soul feel so heavy
and my face feels as though it will crack if I pretend for another minute
I wouldn't wish this on anyone
Fighting an enemy that isn't tangible for so long
Still I wonder: is this enemy even real?
Something I can't touch or describe,
but have in my mind every day
Urging me to hate myself and bringing me down,
every step feels weighted down
Pulling me further into myself and away from my surrounds
Is today the day it all becomes too much?
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 9:06 AM UTC
We have time on our youth,
inches on our throat.
We have cleaned for years.
We swell to cry,
this does not fix us.
Flatter our unsoiled volitions!
Gorge our empty stomachs—
Martinet, our Big Brother!
We have cleaned for years.
“Clean til I say—
Satisfied.”
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
We have time on our youth,
inches on our throat.
We have cleaned for years.
We swell to cry,
this does not fix us.
Flatter our unsoiled volitions!
Gorge our empty stomachs—
Martinet, our Big Brother!
We have cleaned for years.
“Clean til I say—
Satisfied.”
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
I am a beautiful bird
my feathers are tinted purple and pink
proud, unsoiled and unique
its what distinguishes me from the others
here I brood on my perch
in this crowded cage
the others compete to be heard
the cage is permeated by noise,
an intolerable noise
and there is no peace
daily, I sit on this perch
longing to hear the calm silence of serenity
no unbounded chatter
no stirring about in the bottom of the cage
just peace and serenity
my voice, my beautiful voice
has been silenced
no melodious notes or harmonious melodies,
just silence
I want to sing, I want to be free
waiting for the day that my radiance will be released
inside I hear the melodies,
echoing repeatedly
awaiting my revelation
when my opportunity approaches
I know why the caged bird sings-
to be heard
to be free
I want to be free
I want to be heard
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 11:50 AM UTC
A Poem For My Dead Grandma
by Mirriam Mk Salati
Grandma, you're
My heavenly engel
All that you were
Is what inspired me to be
Your home,your love and your warmth
And everything good.
Your arms were always open
And ever ready to shelter me from harm
Your heart was ever full of love
Your words were ever full of hope
And I want you to know
How much I appreciated you and still do
And your unsoiled wings
Your courage and your happiness
You showed me while you're stil alive.
I miss you, all my love
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 5:21 AM UTC
Let us put a few pages between us
Unread, unsaid, unshed
Unsoiled if it could be said
Likened as if they would stay
Empty as the newborn day
Unruffled as a Sunday afternoon
Too many flavors have spoiled the cook
Shape-shifting constituents of exactitude
Aplomb with certitude
Straight as an arrow
Smooth as certainty
Singular as perfect pursuit
Agaze are you, blue hue
Cobalt true and blue
Cerulean sometimes soft
and clouding
Metallic pallet surrounding
Hard as steel,
Warm as a cold day in May
Where analysis paralysis
Has you curious
Doubting and dubious
Calculous and carefulness
Left you immaculately scandleless
Does it sometimes get so lonely
Between the devil and the deep blue sea
Have you ever not looked before you leap
Do you ever gurgle goo goo’s
Before you go go
Running in place
Going nowhere
Never too close
Never too base
Was it ever not intentional
Wrought by incompleteness
Messy this neatness
Red hot chili sweetness
Intense with meetness
Hurt and heat compete
Will you ever admit defeat
This can’t go on
I’m ending it here now
This is the end
My pretend friend
I tore up the recipe
I’m going to make you over again
A pinch of friendly less pretense
A dash of vulnerabilities
Stir to understanding consistency
Deep well cooker piquancy
Boil until bubbles break
Give and take
Friend
Skewer to hold shape
Then lift with a circular motion
More kneading
Less bias
Low and slow
Until tender
More me
Less you
This I can do
And so can you
I’ve made you anew
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
I have took bruises
All of my life,
I brace for impact
Upon my skin.
I take remarks like
A pinch of salt,
Using them as
seasoning on my soul
Yet for some reason
Your words are toxins
To my forever flowing
Unsoiled blood.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC
I took a walk down a sloping path
Trees and brambles, nature’s bloodbath
My hands, a guide
My eyes, a map
My mouth, drooling and drawn to that amber sap
The ground below finally led me there
A trusted fort, a quiet town square
A lonely whistle serenading the unsoiled air
A symmetrical tree sat waiting like a snare
For me to take its’ paragon
But, oh, do I even dare?
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
the paper in front of me remains unsoiled,
no traces of muddled thoughts,
blunt conviction,
or even a speck of wariness.
the solace that i had found
in creating my own gospels
was nowhere to be found.
words no longer gushed
from the corners of my mouth,
nor did it try to burrow into nothingness.
no matter how many times
i twist and untwist these jumbled letters together,
i am woefully greeted with none other than
static and white noise.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 12:52 AM UTC
Ancient Seat of Versailles
Sweet shimmering palace
Place of majestic mirrors
Reflect the grand beauty you store
So that each vision
Is distorted and deformed
Yet still retains the brilliance
Of picturesque perfection
Like Capitalism unsoiled
Or Socialism Unspoiled
A duet of ideas
Promising the good life
The great life
Heaven, before it was hardened
By revolutionaries of reality
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
a wicked, unrighteous child's mind
lies closer to the truth
than a noble graybeard's ever will &
here is that only, hideous verity:
death has the body of a boy.
an ocherous-haired boy, sylphlike,
unearthly, peerless and
other word to forbear from writing 'beautiful'.
guiltless people do not know that.
'irradiating one, let me hold you', he says,
and i let him. i can recall swearing,
palms pressed together and liquid lungs
settled at the bottom of a bathroom sink,
never to allow to be eaten again
because that is what holding someone is for;
(guiltless people do not know that.)
be that as it may,
i let him.
forgiveness was never
suited for me, anyway.
there can be no fallacy;
no fraud can remain a fraud
once they are birdlimed
by a fire-stricken embrace.
a mindless prey is what they become.
a devourer is what he always was.
guiltless people do not know that.
my eyelids will not yet sink over my pupils,
not until his hidden claws,
ribboning and shredding their way
out of his unsoiled skin, turn
my neck into bloodbath,
my heart into maelstrom.
what a blessed, glory-driven way to meet death.
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 8:15 PM UTC
The morning sun whispers
to the awakening day.
Rivers flow serenely,
as the animals of the earth
sip from its unsoiled water.
Each body of existence
lives in harmony
with one another.
No pollution.
No greed.
No pain.
Just peace.
-the day the earth stood still // I.M
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 1:18 PM UTC
Love is not pure
Not in any form
In order to
Keep my canvas
Unsoiled of these
Unwholesome blots
I am lonely
Clean; yet unseen
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 10:37 PM UTC