"unsoundly" poems
Hearkening whispers that remind me of footsteps;
awaiting them to be yours---
I'm ashamed, defeated on all fours.
I'm crestfallen because I'm certain
that I am devastatingly unsound---
nose stuck to the ground.
I have a mood indigo so abiding it's embarrassing.
My heart is colliding and subsiding to this pain.
I hear one tick and imagine that it's the lights;
a plight to know this night hasn't died---
but it never is one.
I'm pretending its all a burlesque
but repressing the truth that it never is that picturesque.
It's never a picture show.
I dream unsoundly,
and now my world is despondent and unsoundly.
Here I stand, invisible and indigo.
I've been indigo since "my baby said goodbye."
I'd call myself Ivonne
but nobody would even care to know.
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
The lights were supposed to be a barrier.
Like salt for a snail,
like the sun for a vampire.
The warm white rope
casting a spell like a mother's womb.
But no no no not here.
A light house beacon and they clamored
like tripod aliens on a crusade.
Leaving my brother shaking as he stands
in plaid boxers with one sock on.
His body weight rests on that foot
the other too vulnerable for touch down.
Are they off me? Are they off me?
He can't stop yelling it,
though I'm pretty sure it was just one.
Its the cold hour of the night
where everything is grim and surreal.
Our skin is pulled tight from our austere faces
and bones poking out.
I am nine and he is eight,
but he's always cried easier.
His clothes had been stripped off so quickly
I know they don't need shaking.
I turn them in, back out, and shake them.
They're off you, brother.
He's embarrased, and wipes his face
as he pulls his shirt down to cover his skinny hips.
Next we shake everything.
A bait and switch and the lights are piled in the corner.
The needle monsters clamor to them as though possessed.
Their radiator humming is unnerving and peaceful.
Teeming is the word to describe it.
Their own Utopia.
They won the war,
we sleep unsoundly, swollen, in the darkness.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
You were a girl and I won the privilege of watching you grow.
So darling, the porcelain; how trite a description for you.
But it made you smile, always. Even when I didn't put
any inflection in my tone.
It was enough for you that I said it, and only sometimes meant it.
It was Summer, if I remember of any proper, when we met;
or, rather, spoke, for the first time.
Then the Spring where I lost the last line of your beautiful mind.
And that willful fruit bloom from your high hanging branches.
You used to joke, "Don't steal my sap, but lick my wounds."
Arrowheads fletched from your leaves and flew unsoundly,
toward the open eyes of glimmer for those of whom you
allowed near. I caught each one and bled, and with my
oily fingers I drew wilderness and art on your bark.
Spring was meant for you to bloom, my darling.
Maybe you didn't hear, or know. You forgot things sometimes,
like to stretch your arms toward the sun and siphon goodness.
A gentle axe tap to remind you. To make you familiar with,
the pain of the care. The stone was heavy and often deflected.
It's Autumn now. Our favourite time of year. We never got to
make bouquets with your hair.
Winter is coming. You would hate that reference in a poem to you.
Novels are always better, "Except Kubrick!" we would say in unison,
and how you, this time, would always remind me of the night I said
something wittier than the rest of all my life. You cheered up a suicide
because you feared the same loss twice, as all old wounds heal sharply.
How did you do it? Give me laugh lines.
So deep they soak in water and are vibrant.
I don't blame you, all things in nature must wilt.
The markings of calendar, and I know when the rains
wash away the snow and leave blades of grass heavy
you will be there in support, lifting the tiny sprouts with a fingertip.
That they never felt before.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:00 AM UTC
Like a pack of dogs lounging
in minutes, minutes, minutes, eyeing an endless treacle.
it’s worth the shot.
what is?
I heard he went into a crash,
and that Rey went into the deep blue dreaming of
fins and fish – that ******* Brenn was up in the hills.
it’s a wonderful day to fill this space with the electric frill
of laughter. Open that Emperador held loose in that
cheap, slender bottle. That’s worth the stipend, in exchange for
light – clarity, be it crass, and unsoundly. These ungodly hours
will form a God, trying to go home, slurring, shaking in his gait,
hailing a trisikad or a tricycle back to Philomena’s arms.
it was a magnificent day – you know it is. The squalid canals
are filled with the ******* under the care of a tyrant.
Jon looks like he’s cut up for matrimony. We jeer and give out
no jell so as to ridicule him into chaining himself to a passing.
Empyrean is the mood now: all primed for the blackened chapel’s chase
down the pews towards recognizing the smallest children inside ourselves.
This moment is far from over. Like a skipping Betamax. A gramophone
clamped in the kinked note lost somewhere in the sound byte,
try this matrix for the forgotten. Tomorrow we will curse ourselves
for the proud challenge, rivaling ourselves in the process.
Like dogs in heat. Like dogs aching to **** Like dogs
garroted by the selfish hands of the neighbor. Like old bones
sleeping in troves we have forgotten.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
Deep seated pain that pulls at the strings of the heart
Harrows the mind with grotesque music
Which mimics the voices of a thousand groaning ghosts
Reducing the afflicted one to a silent madness
Lost in thoughts riddled with the images of a life of twisted torture
And eyes staring fixedly into nothing, as it seems, as tears flow freely
To mourn a life that will not pass
Now craving death, could it be the answer?
Back and forth within herself the questions resonate
How will this end? Will an end of this be ever known to me?
And instead of answers she only hears the echoing gong
Of an unsoundly noise so utterly disheartening that
The emptiness of it gnaws into her spirit
Snubbing out whatever light is left to show for any memory of happiness
So that even the fleeting curl of a smile is but a hopeless longing for her face
A paling canvass etched with the likeness of misery
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
I remember being normal
Full of life and cheerful
Now it's a memory far-flung
Since the day you came along
Your knock made my heart beat profoundly
Not the good kind, it was unsoundly
I thought my heart was gonna explode
And I shook uncontrolled
My knees gave in and I felt heavy
It was a chilly night but I still felt sweaty
I couldn't begin to fathom what just happened
I brushed it off as an off occurrence
But who would have imagined?
It was the first of many to happen
No it's not a loved one or a friend
It's the demons inside my head
Mr. Depression and Ms. Anxiety
The demons invisible to society
Ergo my cry for help and screams of pain
Became harder to explain
You say everyone hates me
And I am to blame
Enough! Go away! Stop calling me names;
Fat,
Ugly,
Crazy,
Worthless,
You say I put my family to shame
You have made me hate own reflection
Rather than loving it, I loathe my imperfections
Can anyone hear the silent screams in my mind?
No you have made sure I tell everyone I am fine
You have ignited a fire that just burns bridges
I am concerned, I am alone, I can't keep up with this
I often want to pull the trigger ending it all
I am drained and tired, a little push and it will be curtain call
Mr. Depression and Ms. Anxiety ENOUGH? STOP! I plead for my life
I can't bare this anymore the burning is making me go blind
The darkness is ever so consuming
It's pitch black, very confusing
Some days I am Jekyll, some days I am Hyde
I have lost myself
I can no longer tell which is you and which is me
I want the normal days I remember
Where I was happy and cheerful
It has become a distant memory
I just want to be me
I beg you, I implore you, I am on my knees!
Have some mercy, LEAVE ME ALONE!
I just want to be me.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 11:02 AM UTC