"unvoiced" poems
What's it take
These days
To write a poem
That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest
Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?
Is it perhaps...
the "creativity"
of varied spacing
or... could it be..... the lack
of capitalization
the loathsome little letters
screaming out
hey, look at us!
... or maybe it's
the punctuation marks,
littered, haphazardly
through the text
(whether used correctly)
or, theyre not?!
despite worrds mispeled
and a grammar might is broken
can these gimmicks increase interest
though miswritten or misspoken?
Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
(or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
Praise for which we
Privately, desperately
Pray
Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism
Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes
Well, maybe not...
those gems are often ignored
cast-aside, unread, even abhorred
Why?
Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
of "the right way"
to write
to speak
to act
to live
to (fill in the blank)
No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!
And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way
Line
After line
Of synonyms
over
and
over
and
over
again
-----
What's it take
These days
To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?
But more importantly:
What's it take
To make my poem go viral?
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
Dear Soulmate
I'm pretty sure we've crossed paths before, just unassured of the spot
But I know you've already forgotten
How I look or how my name sounds like
Just another wallflower within your area of sight
Dear Soulmate
It's pretty weird for me to have you here as well
A bit restless, I don't know if you can tell
After being spun around the other way
By you who caught me in his arms and let me stay
Dear Soulmate
It almost feels like I have a debt to pay
Only to be fixed by paying attention to you
One burden I don't find myself to be in dismay
For I know that somehow, you carry the same load too
Dear Soulmate,
I am not in love with you, let's make that clear
I have learned not to after all these years
From many a chance encounter broken by this mere
Emotional "commitment" shrouded in unvoiced fear
See, I can not be caught in the teeth of romance
For it has bitten me once, let's not give it another chance
to ruin something good, I know you'd understand
So let me keep my distance now, before it catches me with its glance
Dear Soulmate,
I hope you feel the same
As I write to you, it may sound insane
Let me explain, before things turn twisted
Why I can't let you be one of them in the end
The problem is when my soul finds a mate, it ***** it dry
leaving it dependent for it to thrive
I see yours basking in freedom, a wonderful light
So I won't say goodbye, but rather, goodnight.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
I have spent much time
on daydreaming,
I forgot things
I should have written,
words I supposed to pen
in the blank space,
are now gone —
gone as the night sleeps.
Becoming unknown,
from those fantasies I built,
the heart speaks —
when lips unvoiced by guilt,
for those lovely words
were now forgotten by time,
forgotten by my mind,
forgotten by the night.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
Just like how the dandelions disperse
with a sudden yet firm kiss of the wind,
I hope these unvoiced feelings of passion,
of longing,
of dreaming,
of loving
will soon be swept away by fate
so it may find its way to flourish
within the tall fences of your own world.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
While you were away,
My words seem to fall on deaf ears.
Unvoiced mutterings that fall out in droves,
Burning rants swallowed back in singes and sears...
While you were away,
Time was stagnant; a viscous puddle.
Hours only stretched longer,
The second hand jabbing its ferocious needle...
While you were away,
The clock drove me insane.
Ticking my life away in literal seconds.
Losing sand grain by grain...
While you were away,
And when it's all quiet and dark,
I could hear my heartbeat...
Awaiting the new day to make its mark.
While you were away,
My words seem to have lost their meaning...
As if they were stuck in limbo,
Unanswered calls that keep on ringing...
While you were away,
I am but a little lost foal...
Because whenever you're away,
I am never whole...
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
Feelings are within you
In your deepest heart and soul
Feelings are felt and seen
By those who only feel for you
Feelings unheard troubles the mind
Feelings unread torches the softest heart
Feelings unvoiced torments your soul..
Feelings uninterpreted, unanswered...
Killing you.. killing you softly , suicidal love..
Feelings are words unspoken
Feelings are invisible touches
Feelings are unseen caresses..
Feelings are shared dreams unfulfilled
But feelings are continuous...
Reflections of heart, life, love and soul...
Hidden feelings ... pathetic souls
Blinded kisses... numb and cold..
Unveil... unveil...
Let the magical love be revealed....
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
The cottage is old and the garden trees have overgrown,
The long missed smells of mother’s food…
Oh, what joy to eventually come home!
Shrill morning breaks to the call of crows
As the sun rises from behind prison walls.
A reminder yet again, Light alights in sleeping hours,
Daylight brings hell, the unvoiced tortured wails
Which cry out for the Light.
But it plays tantalizing games at night
And leaves the mornings in the hand of the jailor.
No friend, no foe, no merchant nor sailor
Will ever come to see…
We’re alone in our six square feet cells
Us, and the haunting drum roll of the surrounding sea.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
Let's liberate this silence
Let it blemish with the smoke
Coming off of the cooling coal
That once burned
in the wake of unvoiced promises
Somehow, you and I have managed to exchange dreams,
fears, and beliefs with one simple unspoken conversation
And now words cascade
Down rivers of my arteries and veins
Toward the palm of your hands
Hold them close
(I never intended to let them go)
But it seems that with every nonverbal exchange
A string of understanding ties us together
And there is nothing left in my power that I could do
To save us from the falling sky, splinters of moon,
and blankets of midnight blue
Jul 13, 2022
Jul 13, 2022 at 2:40 PM UTC
Unfinished sentences have become my forte.
Unvoiced emotions have become my norm.
When you see penguins or giraffes,
When you taste pancakes or lo mein,
When you hear josh turner on the radio,
When you drive through the eclectic neighborhoods
Of hilly chilly San Francisco,
Will you miss...
I will always love...
Even though I shouldn't...
But maybe one day...
Yeah...
One day this won't hurt so much...
Right?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
A coffin, my love,
Built of porcelain bones,
Under your weight, they endlessly groan.
One breath, my love,
you oscillate in my lungs,
you intoxicate where you've stung.
Your venom, my love,
Sinks with every inflection
Of your unvoiced rejection.
A garden, my love,
Full of flowers turning black,
hiding smiles full of cracks.
.
Cut my skin, it's you I'd bleed.
You're the resting place I've come to need,
I'm the shell of a girl left to be freed.
But you didn't see,
you couldn't see,
I peered into your coffin,
and I couldn't find,
I didn't believe,
That in that place,
there wasn't a single trace,
Of me.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
Under a stagnant sky,
Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,
The River, jaded and forlorn,
Welters and wanders wearily--wretchedly--on;
Yet in and out among the ribs
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles
Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,
Lingers to babble to a broken tune
(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!)
So melancholy a soliloquy
It sounds as it might tell
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,
The terror of Time and Change and Death,
That wastes this floating, transitory world.
What of the incantation
That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore
To take and wear the night
Like a material majesty?
That touched the shafts of wavering fire
About this miserable welter and wash--
(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)--
Into long, shining signals from the panes
Of an enchanted pleasure-house,
Where life and life might live life lost in life
For ever and evermore?
O Death! O Change! O Time!
Without you, O, the insuperable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!
2.3k
Closeted. Red.
Corrupt. Abrupt.
Jarring & Tarring.
Obsession. Infatuation.
Sweet confrontation.
Voiced. Unvoiced.
Heat. Discreet.
Prohibited discovery.
Trespassed precinct.
Animal instinct.
Sinful rust.
A burst of Lust.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
From the visions of sparrow vanguards
that fly insatiably onward.
From the tombs of ancient hearts draped
in flowing, moth-eaten fabric.
From the fighter jets stalling somewhere
above solitary and succinct farmlands.
From the bottom of a broken purple
sunset that lies embossed on my brain.
From the silliest half-thought left
unvoiced in the vagrant light of a damp
and desolate lamp lying in a landfill.
From several mouths at once.
From oracles cross-legged in caves.
From the gills of a catfish on a hook.
From mythical forgeries and the perjurer's tongue.
To the subdued hope resting in a
trembling hand gripped round its pen.
To satisfaction that is oneness that
seems to never arrive but is there
all along.
To the peaks of the Himalayas.
To my spidered desk light, shallow with doubt.
To my flustered and torrential page.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
*The odor of blood drops in drapes,
figures half-lit form false shapes;
the bed on which I lie and the windows
welcome what the delicate line knows:
the open imagination's well-kept trade
that many shrug off
with a stilted stare or cough,
throwing discredit on what honest hands have made.
All that dreamlike inspiration
becomes a beautiful conflagration:
the smell of emblematic men and women slain,
and flickering lights from where thought's shadows came,
issue out of the creative heart's desire
that's uncontrollable,
requiring an artistic toll,
like the worn fingers of the bard that plays the lyre.
But that's what poetry's about,
a deep and draining silent shout;
the hand is left cramped and consumed,
the heart's violet blossoms begin to bloom:
sedative perfumes slide over your wearied frame –
half-memories abate,
the odorous dead dissipate –
you're deserted, yet the halcyon heart flares aflame.
Symbols come and symbols go:
the disfigured trees obscured by snow,
or simply standing against the wind
or windless heat; a cherished friend,
loved ones who’ve passed and the Lost Lyricist;
the Muse that eludes
the damp room in which it broods;
an image of stream near a stony tower’s twist.
Find here, dear reader and friend,
a testimony sung over again.
I write this text to release me from
broken thoughts and anger’s sum:
all that childhood and adolescence approved.
The unvoiced thoughts
of a boy caught by cast lots
inked to find something beyond evanescent truths.*
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
By cold logic you arrive,
not through panic nor insanity,
for they are something separate.
You recall those who witnessed,
through blinded eye the beginnings.
Those seemingly oblivious of your falling to this place,
and who could offer no sanctuary or escape.
In your mind the inaction testifies, of a value you no longer hold.
Not just in your place of open eyed awareness,
But also in their world of illusion,
where you no longer belong.
There are two pathways ahead.
But only one will each choose according to their need.
Emotional pain made into the physical
Or the ending of pain both felt and caused, both past and future.
At the beginning and in the intermediate,
the times when cries for help prevailed.
Not consciously shouted but through changes,
altered interaction with the world as it once was.
To those who bore witness to beginning and middle,
at this stage comes the "why?".
"I saw it"...."Why did I not see this outcome?".... "I knew",???
To those who have not been here,
There seems to be no logic,
They cannot see from where they stand the simple rationale.
So contrary and beyond sight
that only the tag of insanity gives explanation.
At the beginners guide just so the numbers who sought to read.
At the intermediate a lesser number could give an interest.
The despair of others an unwanted knowledge and the readings so reflect a reality best kept unvoiced... too disturbing to the ear.
And fewer now here... dear reader... eyes uneducated still asking why.... you few are too late to understanding and by now despair has been defeated.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 5:04 AM UTC
I think of you often.
In the morning, late at night,
but those thoughts go unvoiced,
the mortal touch goes unfelt.
It’s easier to keep to myself,
to avert my gaze deliberately.
It’s safer to keep ravenous.
It’s simpler to bamboozle with silence.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 5:55 AM UTC
GOS'POZHO! NE GO'VORYA' BALGARSKI
(Madame! I Don’t Speak Bulgarian!)
( for Onelia )
I stand outside
your world
all voiced & unvoiced
consonants
(& yes I know voiced consonants can become voiceless
but only in certain positions.)
‘mislya...’pisha
(to think...to write)
It’s all Cyrillic
to me.
Only able to enjoy the shape of it!
б
There is an O
with a scarf billowing
over its right shoulder
that really is a b.
(Reminds me of Isadora Duncan driving to her death
her scarf getting caught in the wheel.)
A capital Ɓ that is a v
(Oh yeah? Yeah!)
A large З that looks like a pair of *******
looking down from above from the side.
(And Lord save us
it’s...a z!)
An X that’s a h!
(I see...I see!)
Ф
An apple being cut in two
by a knife
once again
looking down from above
...that’s an f.
(Yes? Yes!)
Something that could be
a starburst
Ж
(zh...zh...zh)
Such a treasure!
Or a strong man
clasping two ladies by the waist
swooning to him in a tango
one on either side.
An Я
looking the wrong way
(Ya? Ya!)
И
Two capital I’s
hanging out together
with the I (i...i...i) on the right
with its hand on the left one’s ***
(naughty vowel...naughty vowel)
Й
And an other two I’s
up to the same shenanigans
but with half a halo over their heads
as if they only wanted to be half good!
Maybe one day
I’ll learn
A little Bulgarian
(dogo’dina... dogo’dina)
((next year...next year))
But right now
it’s all
pictures
to me
that dash across
my imagination.
Stra’hotna ‘roklya!
Iz’ghezhdash prek rasno!
(Fabulous dress!)
(You look great!)
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
It ends
Dusty room
Flooding memoirs
Frozen words, voices
Unspoken word, unvoiced
Ripped my heart that I was just a passerby in the rain.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 5:38 AM UTC
Wishing your hands might fuse with my *******
and that your phallus,
flaccid,
-just the way I like to taste it more-
may set in my mouth its lightest traces,
may reborn,
helped by saliva, which is full of poems,
and then you ***
and we both become some crude socialists, or communists, or wherever you like the most.
Then you take my red ***** as your communist flag, and recite your manifest before it.
And then my nails painted with desire, dovetail with your left arm,
-tattooed of what your soul unvoiced-
and become draw a turquoise butterfly,
emulating me,
and then, an ****** beyond re-surge,
that will go from sadism to communism,
and from metamorphosis to ******
and if while I write you this,
my *** is getting wet,
little by little,
getting full of my sacred elixir
–according to your mouth-
perambulate my ******
-self-possessed and palpitating-
and if my mind doesn’t do anything else but imagining you,
raining white over my shoulders,
and my back,
and my hair,
and nothing matters then,
because it’s voluntary retention, and your ******* friend Marx is next to you,
and not me,
that I’m just listening arias,
and smoke,
slowly smoke,
towards your savage, flaccid, tasty *** always present in my mind,
and my lonely ***
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
It's late and I'm tired
But I can't go to sleep
There's too much to do
Too much I haven't told you
Too much I want to hear
Too much to listen to
Too little to waste
There are adventures
not yet experienced
There are voices
unheard
There are thoughts
unvoiced
There are songs
unwritten
There are kisses
unfelt
And I have adventures to experience
And I have voices to hear
And I have thoughts to voice
And I have songs to write
And I have kisses to feel
And I have you.
Oh, you.
Who are you?
I certainly haven't found you yet
Actually, I thought I had, but you went away
Now I fear I will never see you again
Oh, you.
You with your saddened eyes
You who have endured so much
You who deserve so much more
You who I try to help but
You who shy away to
You who are gone.
gone.
gone.
It does not make my thoughts any clearer
It does not make me feel any better
It does not make my eyes any drier
to write.
But it does help the sunshine keep a little longer
It does let your kisses linger in the shade
It does help my weary head resurrect
The light from whence we came
And I know that someday you will return
And I won't let you slip down down again
And my time awake is time well spent
So I cannot sleep.
I cannot sleep.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
Boring clothes
Quiet unvoiced thoughts
Loud voice
Loud presence
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 5:15 AM UTC
I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.
Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically
A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.
Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.
Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Nobody by Mitski
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 1:42 PM UTC
Whence once I heard the faint whisper of the rushing wind
It formed a name in the air, whispering
The faint decibels that your soul voiced
Called out to me, unheard and unvoiced
Sweeping right back I searched for your figure
Forming shapes in the clouds
Awaiting your selfless shoulder
“Oh brother!” I cried out, “Where had you gone?”
You curved your lips and embraced me for long
My head felt light. My soul lingered
And I drifted to another world
To a scape bygone
As toddlers, I saw us playing on the hill tops
Amidst wintery clouds
I saw me run after you and fall on the ground
And suddenly you turned, with concern on your brows
Chasing back and picking me up
Brushing my tears and swinging me up
I saw us race to the school in the mornings
And I saw you hold my hand while returning
But then I felt my hands bereft
My head felt light. My soul revered
I saw me race alone to the school
And I saw me fall and chase the lonely cloud
I saw your face, and its obscure lines
My wet eyes rained bringing me back to this time
Sweeping right around I again searched for your figure
In vain I tried to form some shapes in the clouds
And then I heard the whispering wind rush in
Blanketing the clouds and taking them in
I heard no whispers, no names and no sound
“Oh brother!” I cried out, “Where have you gone?”
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
six months to the day,
of treading along.
like many good things,
an Internet accident.
180 days can be converted
to one of these units:
15,552,000 seconds
259,200 minutes
4320 hours
180 days
25 weeks
(rounded down)
six months here,
a fortune of time,
goodly to behold.
new faces
from new places,
now crowd the heart
that has no shape,
for it expands daily,
making room for
more of you.
your welcome
welcomes more than poems.
ces triestes,
ces chansons de mon cœur,
don de la liberté,
doués pour vous,
dans la célébration de mon
Jour de l'Indépendance
some fingernail torn
from darker memories,
from fears of the future.
others from eyes to paper
ink spilled quickly,
lest the letters,
remain among the
stillborn ashes
hid in the caverns
of the man's mouth.
the ink in the bottle,
that spilt,
gotta be drops of
mixed blood.
by anybody's definition.
perhaps you sense the fearful
truths that lie within,
some yet to be invoked,
unvoiced, unyoked,
for which my concealer
in actuality is a
point-the-way revealer.
all in. good time.
Yet, never met a poem
did not like,
for the man in the beast
is just like {you, man}.
my only excuse for
to having not read
all of yours,
is oft thine stop me hot,
diverting me
to spill some more,
oh child of mine.
convinced still,
is the man,
that the secret
to this poetry racket,
is to never ever stop
laughing at yourself,
loving all the parts of you,
secretly and
secretly, as well,
in the open wide.
so you feed the beast
that devours me,
for restless are the
words that need a home.
someone said to me,
you are one of those
who are
nostalgic for
the future.
restless is the man inside
the beast, restless is the
beast that is the man,
who hates the word I.
With this sole exception.
I thank you.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
I once had a hand-basket filled with red
roses, and gave it as a springtime gift
to my love. She called them beautiful, but
an unvoiced disappointment seemed to reach
out more clearly. I did not understand
what more the basket should have contained, so
I asked her if she liked better yellow
or pink roses. She told me that color
was not the source of discomfort, rather
that I had called her my love when she had
yet to know who I was. I began to
stammer, shocked by her sudden ignorance,
but I didn't have a chance to explain
before a store clerk ran up to us. He
grabbed the roses and called an officer
over because they were not payed for. The
officer grabbed my arm and asked how I
had gotten out again. I inquired
as to what I had gotten out of, but
we were already inside the car. He
mumbled numbers into his radio
and we came to a wide white building that
I seemed to remember from a dream, but
the large blue words over the doorway were
both foreign to me. PSYCHIATRIC WARD.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC