"unwaveringly" poems
Hare Krishna he greets all passing familiar face
the two invigorating words his strength and happiness
his own life in doggy mess he never misses to greet
Hare Krishna to each one his dimming visions meet!
Hare Krishna I greeted him as I passed him on my way
Hare Krishna could you stop a while I had a horrible day
the mother she came to me with her appeal in distress
save my children from death be on you god's grace.
When I reached there I found one child was already dead
an inevitable fate they suffer the children in winter bred
I heard the groan of the other one but it I couldn't reach
if only you heard the howl the doleful wail of the *****
Hare Krishna I tried my best so badly I now feel
Hare Krishna trying is yours the rest is God's will
you tried what's not done and I salute the Man in you
who unwaveringly takes the call minds not the pain to rescue.
As he left me the ageing man passed into the evening's shadow
I saw there not just a man but a living god with glorious halo
It's men like him walk the earth that keeps it a place to dream
Hare Krishna I whispered if only I could be like Him.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
I wasn't always so easily discouraged.
I used to bristle with enthusiasm.
I glowed with it.
It didn't matter if the task was simple, or tedious, or daunting, or boring.
As though on rails, I slammed into each and every task with terrific force.
But I got older.
Things that used to come easily grew slippery.
What I used to do without thinking twice, I found myself over-thinking.
I threw the brake. I ground to a halt.
Finally, I became idle. A left-over husk of a kernel that's already been popped.
I drowned myself with doubts. Hypothetical situations that might never happen.
I lived in fear of what might go wrong.
So I began to watch everything go wrong, as though I was helpless.
I was no less able. I was no less compassionate.
But I had grown wary. Of what?
What was it that, out of nowhere, caused me to slow down?
I guess I looked down and realized that if I fell, I would not be getting back up.
When you're young, you have no worries, because nothing is relying on your success.
So you mess up a math problem. You'll get it eventually.
So you botch things with that cute girl who sits across from you. You're young, you'll get it.
Re-assurance, faithfully, unwaveringly. A safety line should I fall.
But I never really fell, did I? So why am I laying down like I have?
Get up.
Get up.
I worry about everything. I worry that I will fail.
I dread what comes, what I can't avoid. But time, and time, again, it comes, and I miraculously don't die when it hits, because I've been bracing for a train-wreck impact, a force that will really, truly, finally, definitely lay me flat for good.
I close my eyes, and brace. But the crash never comes. The silence that was continued to be.
I turn behind me, but there's no train there.
I'm starting to realize, with relief, (with horror), that maybe all I needed to do was step off the track.
I look down, and realize, with a first-creeping then-howling laughter that I was never on the track to begin with.
I look off where the track is. There's no train there, either. Maybe there never was.
Maybe there never will be.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
"So what can we do for you today?" he asks
My expression unwaveringly content as if wearing a mask
"A lobotomy!" I say with a half-subdued smile
The doctor says he hasn't "heard that one in a while"
Little does he know I am completely serious
And in just a few minutes we being to discuss
"Now why would you want a lobotomy?" he asks leaning in
After a deep breath, I'm all too eager to begin
No bills, no job, no expectations
No depressing lack of motivation
No world hunger, no homeless men
No fear, no stress, no depression
"No love" doc says, sensing I'm the romantic sort
"No heartbreak, cheating, or divorce" I snarkily retort
No lies, no betrayal, no used-to-be friends
No mortgages, no insurance, no trying to meet ends
No hopelessness, no emptiness, no what-ifs or regrets
No innocence or loss of it, no piling up debts
No 8 A.M. alarm, no "what's the point?"
No recurring pain in my left shoulder joint
No waking up from a dream and facing reality
No resenting myself, no one taking advantage of me
No broken sink, no "I'll deal with it later"
No bug problem, no blasting-bad-music neighbor
No thoughts, no feelings, no doing a thing
Just sit, breathe, and eat what the nurses bring
No voice in my head, no have to eat healthy
No "rest when I'm dead" or work 'til I'm wealthy
No final straw in my constant fight
To try to find reasons to keep living life
No fear of the future, no lies from the past
No more constant sadness, I finish at last
An empty silence falls over the moment
The doctor is thinking and his face starts to show it
And then he said something I'll never forget
"I guess you're right, let's get a date for it set"
Doc so strangely agreeing I suddenly hesitate
And before he says more, I can only say "wait…"
"Maybe not yet," I sheepishly say
Maybe there's hope, if even just a ray
I think about life then say "what the hell, why not?"
There may still be hope even if it's impossible to spot
But hoping for hope might be enough for me
To save my brain from a lobotomy
And if in a few years things still aren't going well
I guess I'll still just keep living because eh, what the hell
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
We were once told that we are the missing part of someone else with an empty heart and a lost soul, taking the absurd, roaming around the world as barely whole.
And as I look at two points, a double vision
meeting the one's orbs, unwaveringly— a north star, perfectly aligned upon the night sky. An anchor to a heart, it is engraved deep in waves, tumultuously enfolding each flesh— a longing as to be found in the wilderness, a pillar as to be run into, safely.
And though my love clung to a myth,
bounded to a constellation embodied us
and traced in our palms, they will remain a story from the past.
Mar 23, 2023
Mar 23, 2023 at 9:05 AM UTC
Eye sore at Cisco
the weight of the World veers unwaveringly.
Careless whispers prevaricate,
what was strong
now senses its own weightlessness,
floating on, circles loosen,
traces of people deep in our recesses
slip through the minds flotsam.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
when I die
I do not ask that you surround my body with clay soldiers in the depths of the dirt
I ask only for you to lay me down in the grass
and construct over me a monument of your words
I ask for you to speak of me as I was unable to speak of you
for I can not articulate your presence past the word love
see, my vocal cords cannot adequately express the way I feel about you
the best I can do is replace the ink of my pen with the blood of my heart
and splatter it upon the page
you know, its times when you’re there, and i’m here
that my mind fills with your thoughts
that my elbow refuses to bend because it misses your shoulder
that I pick a flower, press it to my nose, but still smell only you
its those times, when this page, is all I have of you
so instead of folding it into a paper boat and sending it down the river
I write words upon it
I write how much I miss you — and then I send it down the river
for I know that the mouth of the river is your favorite place
that you love to catch things just before they reach the open ocean
just as you caught me, before I sailed off without direction
you stopped me, you handed me a compass,
and then you climbed right onboard yourself
and we faced the open ocean together
so when I die
I ask that you speak of our journey
speak of what we learned about love’s tendency to forget the cardinal directions
so that the compass of my soul points neither here nor there
it points solely and unwaveringly to you
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Love can be one sided but I still
Wonder if that is love at all
And then I think
That one sided love
Is probably the strongest
Love of them all
To love someone
Unconditionally, unwaveringly
Without receiving love back
That's true love
And true love
Never fails to
Break my heart
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
I always believed scars were so beautiful,
until I became one.
A walking, breathing, talking scar - an unchanging reminder of what was and what shall never be again.
I became the scar reminiscent of our love- or rather my love because you were the definition of unrequited
and I used to like that about you - your unwaveringly selfish nature, I used to accredit it to your self belief but then I realised you got that from stripping away mine.
Bit by bit you became who you were by chipping away at pieces of my soul.
Catching the dust of all my dreams and beliefs in your hands and then sifting through it to get what you needed.
Some days you needed a lover.
You needed the heat of my hands raw against the planes of your back- which I had studied in such a neurotically engrossed manner-that surprised even you.
Other days you needed a slave, bent upon raw knees to serve your every whim
and not in a ****** sense because you made it clear that I was repulsive to you most of the time.
No,
you needed someone to serve you and worship at the temple that was your being. You needed a women to be enslaved to your love. You needed to be served and ushered and elevated with no emotional connection. You needed an unchanging commitment that only served you.
You see, I was forever trying to be what you needed and in that attempt-that feigned attempt at what I used to believe was love, I lost myself. Wading through parts of you that you didn't even care to understand I lost myself.
Raw on my knees.
Wading barefoot through your soul.
Between the sheets- crawling towards you milimeter by milimeter only for you to move further each time.
Tracing the planes of your burning back.
That's when I lost myself,and became a scar. Evidence of all the times you hurt me in a marvelously unflinching and unforgiving way...
All of which I realised when I was destitute.
You see you used to be my home but then the season of our love expired and you threw me out and as I walked the streets of my new life, navigating what it meant to exist without you, I had an earth shatteringly glorious ephiphany - that loving you and being destitute were the same thing.
So here I am. A scar that walks and talks and breathes and the great thing about this scar is that I'm evidence of a healed wound. I am no longer raw from loving you and I am no longer lost. I'm a *** who smiles with no teeth.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 3:43 AM UTC
I built a room out of keys and locked doors
for a steeple boy.
Still, he shuts out the eyes of the people.
He buried his twin sister
a generation ago.
No one knew he killed
“her”
He wrecked her being with the weight of his tears
He tore apart her womb and *******
with the inconsistencies in his mind.
She went willingly,
quietly.
She never existed for him.
Yet, he keeps her
in the hazy recesses of his thoughts.
Reluctantly, necessarily.
A tethered reminder.
His mind is just as broken
just as fickle
just as full as hers.
His/(her)
clenched fists
sentimental soul
conflicted body
bittersweet existence
Maybe today will be the day he is
born
without the mask of his sister.
A coward
(not a fraud)
no longer.
May he speak unwaveringly
even as his spirit wavers.
May his chest be flat and strong
May he sit wider than his mother permits
May his wrists stay unmarred
May his body
be painted blue
and his eyes
(pink).
Though his flesh may be
Change(able),
remember it contains
his heart
his soul
his mind,
that knows and is unsure
…
his throat, that speaks, even as it betrays his deepness
his breath, that fills his well-worn lungs
his spine, that remains s despite crushing ribs
t
r
a
i
g
h
t
his blood, that flows cleanly through veins
his organs, that run amid the ruin of his subsistence.
Now,
his hands open with the creak
of strained muscles.
No longer fading, he fills this space.
Showered, his arms extend into sleeves of a suit.
His fingers pull pants in place
His fingers secure buttons
His fingers knot his tie
His fingers fasten his laces
and,
he remembers his sister.
He chips at her mortar around his heart
His eyes, once covered in cypress flowers,
change to lilies.
He fists the correct key, using his voice,
“This ain’t no sham.
I am what I am”
Steeple boy,
choose life.
Change life.
You’ll be alright.
Relearned human being,
believe.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Clouds of Ash
soot
cinders
smoother our lungs, and choke our souls
My blaze, once contained
loving
warm
Erupted into something wild,
Something burning completely out of control.
Ive seared every inch of you to blisters
to bleeding
to exhaustion.
I took, unwaveringly so, to feed my flames,
to feed their insatiable destruction.
My love and passion, once demonstrated, turned
to madness
to deafening
to draining
Fire took ever inch of us.
I watch now helplessly as the Ash disintegrates
taking to the wind
dissolving in the air
The Earth, our foundation now lies scorched
seared
and baren.
I desperately pray for rain, or a mighty Phoenix
ANYTHING to regenerate the beauty
the growth.
I desperately pray, for a second chance
from you.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 5:56 PM UTC
I don't trust you with it
I want to rip the infested pieces of you away from it
Scourge you out from every nook and cranny
Rip the oldest remnant of you from the deepest crag in it
And place you in a thick glass jar
I want to observe you from every angle and know you inside out
And only then will I know if I'd prefer to wrap you up
Or tear you down
But whichever I chose I would never, never let you out
I would keep you from it but know you both so well
Not even your mother could boast to know more
I would rend you from each other and stitch you back together
And bind you both to me that way my mind screams at me to do
But
First I must reach out and you must grasp my hand
I would love to hear all about you
If you'd open up and let me see who you are
I will accept every filthy and clean part of you
All I require is your every thought
Every breath
Every heartbeat
I ask so little of you
You ask so much of me
You ask me to be a friend in the sense
That you are not entirely unequivocally mine
I refuse
You ask me to be a confidant as though I am not aware of who needs to hear the words you will say
I refuse
You ask me to believe you because you are honest
As though I don't know who you were and are
I refuse
You ask me to care to listen to hear you and I can do all that and more but you have done nothing for me
Slit your throat for me.
Show me you truly need only me to care
Reach down into your chest and present your heart to me
Open your skull and give me your brain
Prove that you trust me enough to check its every secret
Empty out your arteries for me. Show me you trust I'll put you back together
Give me your organs and know that I'll hold you to life
I will accept then
I will listen then
I will care then
You've no clue the extent to which I love those who give me all of them
I will love until heaven and hell and earth and the universe itself wither away
Eternally
Unwaveringly
If I have all of you
You will have me.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 6:50 AM UTC
Lately the poetry is not coming to me,
I feel pain too intensely.
I feel myself enclosed within tight spaces,
I can hardly feel a flow of words, spill out, unwaveringly.
Lately, I’ve been too lost in thought,
I am too much in rumination to get a burst of feeling,
So intense, I resort to written expression.
Lately, I’ve been scared of many things;
Of living and of death;
Of my own and my only friend.
Lately, lately, I await, until the words come again…
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
Sitting always with a pen tap tap tapping
To the direction of a long, tapered finger
Restless paper shuffles, eager to be filled
With medical jargon, words that have
No place in my heart and have never
Existed there, even now failing to mix the oily
Madness with pure liquid thought
Ask your questions of me then, and
I promise to do my best to answer
Watching my thoughts become trapped by
Your pen, locked into paper prisons between
Blue lines and then signed with a practiced
Flourish of fingers, sealing my fate as surely
And unwaveringly as countless others before
I disappear under your gaze, vanish amidst the
Oil pastels that line your office
Time stops here.
I wish I had that kind of control.
May 24, 2011
May 24, 2011 at 8:52 PM UTC
Where does the first
breath go?
Does it stream out of
a hospital window,
heralding a being
that's begun again?
Or does it hover
unwaveringly at the
very spot of exhalation?
It's the same air that was
the breath in the lungs
of those present
in the hospital room
prior to your birth.
As it became the breath
of untold lungs henceforth...
it was just that it passed
in your lungs at the moment
of birth.
As it will pass out of your lungs
at the moment of death...
where indeed does breath
go?
Wherever it is needed to
sustain life...it is life
that breathes irrespective
of name.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
These are worries:
bad realizations and
unfocussed eyes.
These too:
Feeling something raw,
and also vague panics—
when everything beneath
drops far below and leaves
no breath at all.
When the breathing
returns heavy in your ear
and five nails in a circle
on your back
remind you just how real
you could be,
it’s easy to fret
(unwaveringly)
someone is walking
through something
beautiful; nature maybe,
complaining about bad directions.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:42 PM UTC
My sad mentality
Destroys my reality
Annihilates my honesty
All I have got is privacy
Not a shed of sociality
My life's complexity
Against myself a conspiracy
Emphasizes my stupidity
Locks up my humanity
Self pity is my speciality
It seems a necessity
Which confuses my phsychology
And Leaves nothing I wanna be
My life's history
I have waited patiently
To write in my corrupting diary
For I am no deity
If there was something godly
I'd have been killed furiously
That conclusion comes logically
Though simultaneously
I have lived happily
My neurology
I have kept in secrecy
Cause with my souls delivery
To the devils cookery
They feasted immediately
On my souls purity
My life's mystery
Won't be uncovered easily
For I life silently
In my ****** up fantasy
Which left nothing I wanna be
I have waited impatiently
For others to grow up with me
For without being remotely angelically
I have behaved, we'll almost elderly
Or I have tried to behave intelligently
Never drunkingly
And quite rarely
Entirely freely
On this I look quite positively
For it has allowed me
To stand against the waves unwaveringly
Looking upon life much more detailedly
Seeing more nuanced on life's complexity
And for the ability to do this comfortably
I must thank my family
While I can say all the above truthfully
There is plenty to say negatively
For standing against the norm unrockingly
Can at the best of times be quite lonely
And most the time I looked desperately
After those who floated by me oh so freely
While looking so unfathomably
Completely, worryingly, unanimously happily
At a world driven by the greedy,
Disgustingly, horrifying monsters of humanity
This have tortured me existentially
At times I have felt ****** up mentally
But as time passed slowly
Step by step I realized surprisingly
That it has left me allmost exactly like I allways wanted to be.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
She is a caregiver.
She who gives complete care is she whose care is completely given -
So much care to give yet none remains for herself.
Built 6 ft. tall she carries:
A Rolleiflex 3.5T,
A phony french accent
And an enigmatical past.
Ms Mayer.
As her lens soaks up the quintessence of normality in
A diluted Chicago suburb or
The emphatic streets of Manhattan;
She was wired to observe.
Her nature, craving to sustain unrepeatable moments.
Instances so human,
A simple photograph just isn’t quite enough
To capture them.
V. Meyer.
She relies unwaveringly on an object whose sole purpose is to
Look through,
To surpass.
But to her it acts contradictorily as
A barrier,
A rationalized blindness.
An outside eye peering into the lives of others
But never within herself.
She is the lady who would rather look through a lens than into a mirror
Because her refracted self is slightly easier confronted than that reflected.
Vivian Maier.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
I owe you a poem.
From that moment, you asked me to stand up,
And we walked to the ice cream stand,
I've never written you a poem.
I am the worst poet in the world.
How do I find words to describe,
Your tantalizing eyes,
Or your secretive smile?
How can I put into verse,
That time we filmed your project?
We were laughing hard, then.
We talked until the wee hours of the morning.
You told me, 'We're so awesome!'
Are there words for that electric feel, in my veins?
I remember the time I held you, unwaveringly.
You were crying on my new shirt.
Then you kissed me, on my cheek.
You taught me to meld dreams and love together,
To be patient, and understanding.
I am a new breed of person, because of you.
All of the lost love, that lingers.
My heart misses you, terribly.
It is stupid to make poems out of this.
What I owe you is an apology.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 4:47 AM UTC
Softly singing voices, humming ancient hymns
Joining with the thousands that knew no greater sin
Than singing out their sorrow, their voices bleeding dry
Under aching southern sun, and empty southern skies
Unforgiving voices, songs that told no lies
Songs that bore the brunt of bent backs and lowered eyes
Song that called them out and carried them back in
One more day of waiting, one day of lesser sins
Is it worse to live in waiting or simply not to live?
And when I know these songs and dare to those sing these hymns
Is it any wonder that I'm waiting there with them?
I see it all behind me, unwaveringly clear
Days of angry singing, those days of ancient fear
And when I feel them with me, feel the weight of all those lives
I had better hold my head up, better not lower my eyes
Better sing songs of freedom, songs that tell no lies
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
In 11 years
At least one thing hasn't changed:
You're home to me
You've supported my endeavors
And I've always had you to come home to
I like having that to count on
I need your stability
May I be so bold to say
Maybe you need my variety
I like that you truly see me
I need that
Maybe you do too
I need your insight and blunt honesty
I need your silliness
Maybe you need my different ways of thinking
We unwaveringly support each other
I need your stability
Maybe you need my variety
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
I am spatial, /
I understand, /
I fathom, /
Through distance, space, & time, /
I see clearly, pristinely through you & I. /
'Do not forsake me, /
I am everywhere,' /
He says to me, /
And I unfalteringly, /
Unwaveringly, I believe /
In Him, are treasures: /
The opulence, /
The affluence, the direction, /
Of one-million /
Guiding stars. /
You are a sign, /
A beacon of hope to the lightbearers; furthermore, /
A portent, /
Ominous, pernicious, /
To the Cimmerian shadow. /
I know you /
You, /
I love /
You, /
For that I am grateful. /
What is love? /
An existential vagary? /
Perhaps not. /
It is real, it is tangible, /
When He is in my arms. /
Mi amour, /
Mi amour, /
Mi amour, /
Mi amour, /
Me encanta, mi amour. /
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 3:15 PM UTC
Our footsteps rumble, like the wind that smells of Avar, our souls are still bathing even several times a day in the bleak, puffed-up filth of everyday life; we cannot leave the sheep clouds of childhood, because it still belongs to us. The awkward floating between Being and connections, the longings of diminishing instincts scratch marks viscerally not only under the poles of the skin, but also into the personality within.
The heralds who enter into alliance with the living have also arranged for vigils beyond dreams. In the lap of Being, it would be good to give up once and for all all attacks and defenses deemed futile against something that will totally entangle us anyway.
And although the nightmarish night is accompanied by incessant resurrections of light - man cannot always surrender himself, stripped bare. In the opening wound-darkness, instead of a forest of clenched hands, some kind of understood, squeezed empathy-tolerance would be good. In the atomic-stress feelings of eternal haste, in the vigilance of vision, the human soul can easily get lost; the beginning and end of internal landslides would unwaveringly crush the cracked shell of completeness, so that the separated Reality and idyllic illusion would be separated once and for all.
The secret current of the suppressed anxieties nicknamed permanent may still emerge here and there, a ring of shadow-memories of piercing shadows, a distorted face that remained was all that could remain. Every day, a person constantly feels when and where he has reached into a wasp's or an eagle's nest, which repeatedly wounds his stubborn conscience. A horde of angry people tempts him in a deserted, alley-smelling doorway, because sooner or later no one even notices and the endless silence quickly runs aground!
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 12:13 AM UTC
I give to you without expectations, I realize I may never receive the same treatment. Yet I still yearn. My love is greater than others so their heads turn. I am unorthodox, one of a kind, rare, unique so the norm does not apply to me. I haven't received loyalty or love from the people I meet, no acts of genuine kindness and sincerity could change their view of me. I try really hard to get the ones I care for to notice, but my mind just seems like its never in focus, I'm often shy and flustered when I'm in their presence because my feelings are true and unwaveringly they are tested. I feel like this is a losing battle. I won't be the victor, because they are the takers and I am the giver.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
incessant selflessness manifested is ignorance
opposite its notorious nemesis, selfish, insidious
let the latter mask the masses,
they are us and we, its masters
yes, i was them till i was casted
i will not master nor be mastered
for voicing inquisitiveness
similar to the kin of the sin
rumored to have killed the cat
let them castigate and excommunicate
my mask will decay in the casket
till, that is,
they let the former; its toxic gasses
end times nine lives like mine
shunned and inhabitants
who slumber under overpasses
and would unwaveringly pass
on being passive
on not going under
long before playing roles active
in a world so colorfully composed
of paint strokes dipped
in tin cans consisting
of the blood and innocence
of shunned masses,
the victims of ignorance
and its subsequent massacres.
asleep in peace
at rest with my dignity
my pride
and all the answers.
as are the circumstances
of those who will not master
nor be mastered.
disaster
- end
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 8:39 PM UTC