"unsound" poems
Drop me in your ocean
I will try not to drown
Vast and full of life
Beautiful and profound
Swallow me in your waves
Wildly unsound
Thrilling and revealing
Unstable and confound
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
City lamps in clusters of concrete
On 18th and Sherman street
The cars pass by scanning me
Each unsound engine roaring
Darting pupils
I feel it on my externals
On my lips and phalanges
Intruding glances cascading over
my silhouette
Deja-vu-like resemblances,
strange
Sunken cheeks look bizarre
and blotchy as the socket drains
something toxic to the veins
that's permeated the future in an instant, like a comet,
encandescent and shimmering like a scale, the awareness fades
Like some dreary mirage
I remember those little band aids
Vintage carnival tickets
discarded on the scratchy ground..
Blue-violet bruises
The paradox of pleasure
A vague creature in
it's discomfort
sitting in defiance and
quivering my sentences
It reminded me of those
incandescent bugs that
smush into Chryslers
With a curled lip, bulging eyes
and ******* up tongue...
Antennaes intertwined like
Twizzlers
Making peace with all
that's stung as the
windshield wipers turn on
Some black tar-smack-oil-
******
My generation consists of
inheriting environmental
destruction and mal-parenting
Global warming. Animal extinction.
Polluting the oceans. Deforestation.
Biting shards off night-time to
suffice for the daily pangs
Shuffling the dregs of karma
to grow roots and vines all about the room
It's not Winter yet
Under this morning dew
I envision it in my mind
A crystal ball vision
contorting into smoke
I caught it in my breath
Catatonically hanging
A turtle with it's legs bending toward the sky
Searching for my tribe and a pulse
on this Earth in sentient souls
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
I guess I’m okay… What more can I say?
Forget it—never mind,
You wouldn’t understand anyway,
Would you even know what it's like?
Inside a scattered disconnected mind,
Employed to go on strike?
Where indirect misdirect
The sincerity at play,
When sinusoidal chaos spikes
And past meets the future present day?
As paranoid points outlandishly connect
At intervals of broken lines,
Memory lost in recollect,
An array of misshaped bells
Internally infect the eternal confines
Of infinite distributional decay,
Parallels with no intersect,
Streetwise cells with empty signs,
Burned out lights, potholes, and landmines,
Littered all the way.
How am I to convey that all those times
You let your mind wander away
That I was reading, thinking, dreaming,
Teeming, never idle, never strayed,
Seeing, being, so far and away,
Even the brightest intellect beaming,
Could not grasp the feeling
In the slightest of highest orders reeling,
Wound unbound, or as it would be seeming,
Imperfect, even to the disarray
Of the tamest prefect, whose verdict
Could not predict the reflect,
For in this world, seeing is deceiving,
As the lamest reject, defect,
Increasingly decreasing,
In simplistic bliss obey
Crowned unsound fallacies
That contradict all meaning,
Hiding behind reality, the actualities
Lest, protect the thoughtlessness perceiving,
Let me stop you if I may...
I must interject for I digress,
What nonsense was I weaving?
Forget it—I've lost my mind,
I best be leaving,
What more can I say?
It's periodic I must confess,
You probably don't care anyway,
Yeah, yeah, I'll be okay,
Until next time I guess,
I wouldn't want to be misleading.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Curls.
Lengthened, stretching
Auburn curls.
Winding around the delicacies
Of profound life.
Growing incandescently
In a newfound, unsound method.
Vibrant with innovation,
Yet in the same instance, arid.
Questionable.
Irresistible.
Undefinable.
Desirable.
Allegorical.
Many are awe-struck by this oracle --
She loathes her curls.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
'Tis easier to look at a mirror
Than to dare introspect,
As the reflection subdues
The deceit buried in a tangled web of lies.
As the light dances on ripples in the water,
The shimmer it casts
To a void that is our souls.
There's darkness all around,
In our hearts and in our minds.
And in times like these
When our thirst is quenched with only more fire,
Our thoughts become inked in red,
Reminded of the weakness of our fortitudes,
And the shallowness of our words,
Let alone be our deeds.
The story of how a good man goes to war,
Lost to the morals of an unsound mind,
Resounds like a thunder in the midst of nowhere.
And as he raised his hand
And plunged a knife
Into the very heart of another his kind,
There he lost himself to the deafening screams of mankind.
And we find ourselves without voices
Drowning in a sea full of tears.
There is ONLY us,
THIS is all us...
OUR tragedies
OUR failures
OUR deeds.
We let ourselves fall,
Even before the walls came tumbling down.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
What Dr. Lector devours with fava beans, inside rots. Too much Chianti?
Not likely. Likely, not enough
but there has been much else. Still,
no amounts warranting any shy example of overload. Mild splurges,
done in high style equal
nothing in comparison to toxic
baths taken in industrial grindstone
mortors. And the payback?
Walking papers and abdominal lump.
Poke it and choke on acid reflux. Pop
more pills to keep it down. Downers
prescribed on more downers.
Feeling down? Have another downer.
What else can we do? Your MRI's
and ultrasound, unsound, do not
come with flag from foreign invader,
claiming this new territory for king.
So, blame it on the offal.
Blame it all on the offal for not
having guts and glory
to fight off its own infection.
And eat your chicken livers.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
The old man told his story, lost within his troubled youth
His words quite labored, heavy... his raspy voice by now uncouth
At times mixing the conversation with gin and ice, and sweet vermouth
His eyes were clear however, and I saw therein...
a quiet truth
He talked of her at length, his thoughts concise,
composed... serene
At times he’d pause, efface another silent tear he’d wished unseen
His dreams would countermand the years... love and youth,
would reconvene
She’s waiting there for him you see… The girl with eyes,
of Paris green
Some had said her ways unsound, disposition... introject
He said she knew the rumors, and she thought them all quite innocent
He told of how she’d laughed at them… of narrow minds,
and intellect
He found in her the love he’d sought, although his hope remained suspect
He looked into her eyes, and saw the faintest touch of sorrow there
Shining through the gentle mist, and the eglantine within her hair
He felt somehow her pain, although she’d kept it obscure...
nom de guerre
And so his own mistakes were viewed, in Paris green...
and sad despair
Their time together thus unfurled within this anguished declamation
Of years now spent in solitude, with lost and lonesome lamentation
For one whose essence still bestows upon his dreams, in meditation
Aspirations there arise, to leave his heart in desperation
His thoughts remained unchanged, unbroken...
memories demure
He stood to mix another drink, then paused...perhaps his mind unsure
Gathering his memories, so past and present touch... concur
And then continued once again, his sad and doleful dream of her
I listened there, throughout the night... I lie in sedentary pose
Then as I fall asleep I see the here and now,
and then... transpose
I see myself in dreams with her, but why? my heart has not disclosed
I'm lost within some late, late hour envisage... or so I suppose
I then awake alone, to find my thoughts of her and then, no clearer
The snow outside my window cannot bring her memory nearer
Though I can dream of Paris green, and all those places, so familiar
Tonight I'll listen once again, and tell my story..
to the mirror
Dean Evans
1-06-15
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
We write about two AM because it is simplicity and we are underexposed. Overtime, simplicity becomes complex and subjective and harder to define. Soon you associate two AM with her hair holding on desperately to her shoulder blades, but at that point it doesn't matter what time it is because all your brain understands is her mouth and how badly you want to kiss it. Everything is clinging to something: hair to skin, sheets to mattress, mouth to teeth; but the real fear lies in what will end up letting go and this is why we are born with out fists clenched, because from the moment we are living, every insecurity spills like air out of a bag you thought was vacuum sealed. See, life is full of complexities and we can't seem to find permanent serenity, but, in the midst of it all, there are small things that resonate within us and soon we collapse into a string of cliches and we fight not to drown within them, collectively babbling and trying to make sense of the concept of never letting go.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Its hard to believe to listen to
The sound of silence through layman's ears
For silence,an unestablished thought
Rides the young hearts only through fear.
Maturity, an understanding through beneath
Sediments like evils srata
For if you conquered,it only leads
To the sound of silence,every data.
For as we stare, me and words together,
Silence redeems through the pages
Every drop of ink forever
Can spell the words through all the ages.
The silence that lingers between
Begs me to hear it closer
Its trying to express the unwanted enclitic
The words that will fade never.
And now as i cherish this conversation of silence,
I realize that ink has a spirit
And to know the mistake i have committed
Which on my face like a bright light lit.
And to know the spectacular reason
I'm astonished myself, i must say
Ink helps us when we are not thinking
Flowing on paper without delay.
This sound of silence that i have gathered now,
Must be of great help all through my life
It will let me hear all those unsound-able things
And help me to decide when to stab a knife.
Through my youth scores, a bunch of thirty
Led me through a rugged terrain,
And now i want a plain surface with lots of pleasure
To lead a life, to be truly sane.
The sound is like a hand i want
Which helps me to walk in young years
Through the blasphemy, through humanism
It will strike away all my fears.
Does one realize that i said
The words of silence through every phase
The crumb of bread a beggar needs
The food of life heaven feeds?
They can't be realized by screaming though oceans,
They can't be realized by ending a story
For they are the curse of hearing unknown thoughts,
The sound of silence one and only.
My heart beats are frantic now,
As i have reached the harmonics of music,
Sweet and presentable they are now
Tapping your life like your feet.
They are many fellows who can't sing
So they make you suffer the sound of silence
With every teardrop longing for supper
Fighting their way through all the violence.
For those who have a great voice
It doesn't mean that they have to be proud,
For it may break any time
Like breaking a stone, like rumbling of clouds.
And i may not be an instrumentalist
And i may not be a teacher,
But i can stop the silence and let them hear music
And make them smile, not to suffer.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 4:24 AM UTC
Last light on the bay,
The sky stained red
By a butchered day,
Dying with the grace
Of a sinking star.
All of its charm
Chastened by the waves
To its grave.
Because their sharp rebuke
Would be swift
And angered outburst be sound
'That thou should not sail
Where the sky meets the sea
If thou dost not wish
To be drowned'
Out there on the unsound
Ground of a different galaxy,
Where aliens have no right
To be,
And salt bleeches bones
Right down to the grain
Leaving lost,
unfortunate stowaways
Scattered like shells on a beach.
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 2:15 PM UTC
Through many nights of unsound sleep
I've heard you say my name
You held your hand out through the haze
And whispered
"Come and find me..."
Your invitation woke in me
The hurt to hold out hope
You've ruined me,
Stole all from me,
And I have always loved you.
If I could take away the nights
I longed to touch your hands
Or smell your hair
Or hear your laugh
Or know you missed me too
I would.
You took my very confidence,
Walked away with all my pride
Doused my trust and struck a match
Reduced my faith to cinders.
Your love was never really mine,
Those sparks alive inside your eyes
Told me I was not enough
Impressions all re-told, relayed
And carved into the hands I hold
Fists I clench ask I stay brave
Despite the truth I thought I'd stayed
Bid farewell and walked away
I've hated every single day
I thought your eyes were mine
But found out later lied at times
And left me in a state of stupor
Stayed up late refreshing thoughts
In hopes I'd see you one life sooner
Not have to wait another chapter
You spin your story, yet another,
I'd found all endings through my lovers
The ones I've loved in living matter
In skin and bone and days forever,
Not dreams that lived through dying embers,
Fantasies of youthful slumbers
Our dreams were worthy of remembering
Days spent in September, singing,
Laughing like our youths together
Holding hands, through frightened fetters
Hearts and promises were breaking
As I recall, the air was heavy
Thick with quaint and distant longing
Brought my blood to painful burning,
Exalted fears to basic yearning,
Turned away, last second learning,
Tears in eyes tore me asunder
Brought me to my lowest standing
I can't afford to be so petty
Perdition's path turned me astray
That road was ours to walk together
But we got lost along the way
Our paths will cross again, I wager
But not the way we walked before
I've learned to trust my loss and anger
The pain is weakness leaving me
Reminders grief was all worth feeling
Wisdom that to life there's more
I have mine and you have yours
Your boy, my words, these bonds are precious
Like soothing rain that stops the storm
Like distant clouds on the horizon
Like winds that settle change's roar
I left our memories on the shore
I've walked away, I'm hurt no more
I've left your memories on the shore
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
Rancor,
Swashbuckling with a sawtooth grin and sacrilegious shouts, selcouth with an unsound mind, the commonness of uniqueness, the commonness of opinionated onions cutting their teeth on life and crying, again, and ready to saw off the limbs of the opposition out of revenge!
Rancor, relax, you're not a Twitter matador, I wish you were because I’d love to watch the show.
We cuddle with exotic nylon fibers and squeal about our weight and status and how someone insulted us and how terrible it is to be alive while sipping on easily accessibly high fructose corn syrup! Life has never been this sweet, but I guess we’re getting sick of honey.
I complain about the complaints, I am the anti-complaining complaint club president.
I am a writer, an iPhone thumb tapper.
Hear me
These mental gymnastics will somersault and summerset you right, child,
Don’t listen to Rancor,
That man’ll grab your gaze and stir your attention into a cocktail while winking at you from behind the bar
he’ll leave your brain a little woozy from a life that used to be sweet until you left it out in the sun a few years too long,
I wonder if some of the dead watch us from the corners of our bedroom or the trees along the freeway, waiting for greatness to unfurl.
I’ll bet they do and I’ll bet you’re a glitch, I’ll bet a little piece of another galaxy hit you in the head and made your finger twitch.
How many hot car hours have been spent in a parking lot,
the skin dries, the phone dies,
the spirit once lifted towards the outlines of the mountain peak now seeks memes, transcendent in their own right.
May 12, 2022
May 12, 2022 at 1:54 AM UTC
Empty words from empty tongue;
empty thoughts from empty minds.
Your eyes doesn't convey the phrases
you're trying to speak;
you're talking so much without understanding it,
and you're just playing safe.
Distorted.
Your actions are torturing me.
Exploded.
From being imprisoned of that loud silence.
Even if you kneel for forgiveness;
even if you say thousands of apologies.
(It's fin'lly over!)
Each story of yours seems so unsound,
and I'm done accepting you (over and over again).
You left me hanging with no regrets,
guess what?!
I'm sick and tired crying bottles of tears.
Stand up!
Just burn yourself by the coldness of the ice!
You can do noting now,
when your sorry is not enough.
(It's fin'lly over)
Leave me alone with
no arguments,
and
no questions,
for I've given you already so many chances before.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 4:52 AM UTC
You the are ripple in a pond that once lay still.
And I wonder if the wind could speak would it ever reveal
why the sky sheds such a solemn tear?
Mountains will roar Loud and Fierce;
But the pond, it always lay still.
Through thunderous storms and endless downpours
it remained serene.
A peaceful pond,
until you intervened.
That single clouds tear sparked a ripple that would never disappear-
a ripple that refuses to adhere to the known laws of this sphere.
As if the roots of the tree grew above the tallest leaves
so high it could see beyond the seven seas;
my world, upside down.
As if the beating of a bold heart broke through the skin to show all its scars;
My pond, unsound.
Grasped by your ripple.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to drown
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
clever boy, honest heart
a voice of well kept notes, and an unsound mind
in grieving, in loss you sang
never silenced, always tested
songbird, keep on singing.
string each note together as you always have
in beauty and even darkness, you sang
so full of love and life
songbird, keep on singing.
clever boy, broken heart
composing music, but never yourself
songbird, keep on singing
and hiding behind your art.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
I'm 20 now, my logic still unsound
I still linger around and use **** to drown it out
I try to be perfect, be an adult, and keep working
but I am not perfect, it hurts knowing that it hurts showing that
but vulnerability is a virtue, I continue to work to
to shine my light to shed light on what might
be brewing under the surface, for a random observer
I'm 20 now, I hate the way it sounds
almost like the tik tok of a clock, I’m an adult now
my prime is coming to an end retail therapy to pretend
I'm not where I want to be, I'm not happy where I am
do I keep put on the track I'm on or do I switch lanes instead
too many tabs open in my head, too little time spent out of bed
I need to get on my own feet, I need to plant these seeds, I need to not burst at the seams
because I'm 20 now, cant wait to see it out
wondering where ill be, who’s beside me, and if I’ll still doubt
Mar 9, 2022
Mar 9, 2022 at 10:07 PM UTC
Truth enamored of itself...based upon
the forever following.
Flow's entrails--the
seven circuit labyrinth pends the
recollection that yielded it.
Thus, the unsound voice pouring
voicelessness.
Minotaur's digestive sound bite.
Where Once, as only Once allotted
the victor of Truth.
As told, as held...now confounds
with a self-fabricating prophesier,
profaning all telling.
Disconsolate swipes of emotion
make and remake the barren.
Pray tell the lessening visage of thee,
where by and by shall deem thee
bygone.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Our genesis,
The foundations of us,
Was architecturally unsound.
A mistake.
A footprint left in wet cement,
Once dried, it's for all to see.
To point at. To laugh at.
Our genesis; A mistake.
We were the two girls
That shouldn't have held hands so liberally
During the school culture festival.
Two girls.
Who know a broken heart,
Tried to tie our halves together in a twisted knot,
All to get over our previous loves, previous lives,
And try to move on with something fresh on our fragile minds
And immortal, frail, hearts.
You stitched my heart back together within a few days,
So I'm sorry that I wasn't enough to stitch yours within years.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 3:11 AM UTC
The wanderer follows
No hallowed path
Set forth for her
By the sagacious few.
Nor does she live
To build her past
For far off futures
Whose seeds are sewn.
No familiar face
Has she ever seen
That greets her where
She decides to sleep
But travels with
The wind in her hair:
The only companion
She chooses to keep.
All empires return
To dust that birthed
Them from the nothingness
Of barren ground,
And push the ambitious
To build them tall
For fleeting futures
On foundations unsound.
Such men still laugh
At one like her
Who possesses nothing
In their eyes,
And lives in chaos
Of shifting destiny
With no respect
For human lies.
But no future goal
Controls her fate
Nor worldly tethers
Bind her past
So she is free
To contemplate
Her relation to
The earth so vast.
She is the dust
from God’s fingers
that’s fallen on
Ungrateful land
And shows the blind
And sinful people
Their origin from
The present at hand.
They deride and mock
Or at best ignore her
And value what God
Did not confer
But she is more
than the earth and sky
And none can take
What belongs to her.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
In tandem we took the jump-
Just you and me.
We weren't falling-- we were flying
We were free
Parachutes deployed,
and sailing were we --
somewhere towards the ground.
But an unsound wind whirled around,
and separated you from me.
now alone and unwound
but still sailing, you see.
sailing, searching, hoping foolishly--
while you hurtle farther from me
as not to be found
losing focus. losing hope.
and I can't see.
but you came back - just
to cut the cords of my chute so callously.
now falling,
not flying or sailing - not happy nor free
plummeting down, down, down
and you're nowhere to be found.
alone and falling,
no net to slow me down
no trampoline, no rebound
and you're nowhere to be found.
would that you would catch me,
but you make not a sound
so you leave your mark
a secret blemish --
nowhere to be found
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 7:14 AM UTC
The dust plate plays havoc
its enough to unsound the light,
around the mountain top again.
Journeying south to balm the disappointment,
asked why and further marching down
the parade sees no end,
just a murmur.
A sigh left unsaid,
again stated it sounds different
as we echo to the Northern valleys,
where icicles lampoon our
uncovered heads.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
I am an old soul
Trapped in a youthful body
I am of unsound mind
In a world built on sanity
My mind yearns for truth
In a society of lies
I long for shadows
In the exposed light
I search for love
In whirlpools of deception
I am a strong body
Stitched together with weakness
I find comfort
In unsettling rains
I seek sanctity
In the midst of danger
I am a failure
Hiding behind my successes
I am a bundle
Of courage and cowardice
I am an old soul
Trapped in a youthful soul
I am human
But I am not
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
If we can travel and enjoy and be everywhere
Who is to know where the heart is really?
The heart has eyes, can see, knows the way.
Tempers, tidal waves, tsunamis, towns and cities.
Being in love is the tops, the best, the bounty.
I have found the treasure.
I have swallowed and been swallowed up in it.
This love has taken me.
This love has saved me.
This is me.
I am seeing me again.
Long lost me.
It is nice this fantasy, this feeling, this fortune of love.
This is wondrous, has filled my heart with song.
Has filled my oneness, my ownness, myself with the fountain of youth.
With healing and air.
With heart beats, and blood flow and mind occupying thoughts of meeting
And touching and talking and more.
Warmth
Warming
Wanting more.
I am full where I never knew I was empty.
More of my life has opened up now
More of my fears have been made into nonsense.
For me to want to expand,
Expound,
Expatriate,
For me to fly to experience and to enjoy is proof.
How can this be wrong or unsound or mean or unjust?
My heart, my soul, is wrapped in a warmth that I thought was long lost.
I am in love.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 12:46 AM UTC