"ventricles" poems
Millions, trillions
And more and more
None of our finger prints are same
None of our retinas are same
Why do we limited to a group
All of our bloods are Red
And every heart has four chambers (arteries and ventricles)
Common oxygen to breathe
Why we are bounded to one group
Everyone has birth from womb of a mother
Every heart pumps the blood
But
Why we are confined to one group
We are humans
This was the only group
We had with us
Unity in diversity is what we want
It should not be limited only for sayings
We should follow this
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
Little pieces of you flow through my veins among the plasma and blood cells. Bits of you bump into molecules of oxygen and they smile. My heart loves you. It pumps you through my ventricles and asks my body not to filter any of you out. My brain sends out constant oxytocin in your presence and my hippocampus keeps memories of your touch within easy reach. My body loves you just as much as I do.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
The waves of blood run over me,
Like water through my hair.
The crimson tide comes rushing in
But I do not feel fear.
For I am just a little cell,
Clinging to the walls.
Arteries, veins, and ventricles
**A ****** wave of awe.**
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
Lick the words
from my lips
let them slide down
your throat
like fruited jewels,
dark, hard candies
that melt into cream
a healing liquid
oozing into my
ventricles,
pumping milky beats
out through
your cells
permeating the deep
of my wild
My syllables will
wrap themselves
around your syntax
frothy hybrids
of buttered silk
and irony
heart-to-heart
conversations that
flow into the ether,
as heaven's night
endlessly begins
We twirl our tongues
into guttural utterings,
lustful verse
that glides from
slick-fervored ice
to an outpour
of lava
We feed each other
dreams
our saliva like honey
dripping with dawn's
tender glow
as we open up
like baby birds,
begging to be nourished
at all costs
Here,
in this lingual forest
Your breath finds a home
on my tastebuds,
my tongue
in your
cheek
In between the tumults
of our
exploding oceans
This
is how we
love
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
The feeling of not being good enough,
inadequacy,
pulses through my heart,
out both ventricles, through the arteries
to deposit the tingling sensation throughout my body like
a thousand red ants
crawling up and down limbs.
Trees have stronger roots than I.
It takes a mere sentence
to break my stance and split me
in two.
You don't notice me
stitching myself back together
piece by piece.
You never notice because I am simply
not good enough.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
when we are in love
we are raw red hearts
bleeding
exposed to the flesh
of the night air
in crisp, sharp breaths
ventricles open wide
as its beats paint
the stars crimson,
skylit rubies
baring all
peeled back touch
of cells like
the muck of our guts
spilled out yet
somehow contained
My insides are
braided, like veins
pumping life into universes
receiving the tender fire
of your jeweled, earthy words
rising to meet each kiss
like an abulation
I am
boiling cherry broth
in this heat-licked ice
that melts upon the tongue
in salted frenzy,
delightful
Wash over me
Hold me in cupped hands,
gently
Take me by the tips of
my soul's hips,
firmly
for I am at risk
of being pulled into
the sweeping monsoon
of
your
forever
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
i.
Fret not, mine antediluvian maiden,
For thine lid's art ladened with the
the encumbering of this last age.
ii.
Awakest, ariseth, mine filipina
of aureole fushae; for the
óres art numbered.
iii.
Yahweh's knocking at the
ventricles of ourn being's;
We knoweth the wisdom
That God giveth, which
Many hath searched-
From king's to Queen's.
iv.
For we art his offspring-
mine overwrought baby,
For there art none if's
nor maybe's; in his
Righteous path.
v.
Verily, yea, the Moon
Wilt turn ichor, the
Waves as of now art
Rising fast, the fish
Art washing to the
Shore's, the fowl of
the heaven's art
Falling to the earth.
As spoken in Hosea
Four-verse three.
vi.
Believeth in Yeshua
mine lady, as the thousands
Having visions and dream's;
Like me, im a testament to
The prophecy coming.
vii.
Don't be afraid of the mockery that
Mayest come, for thine
Blood like river's run
Into the kingdom of
the most high.
viii.
Soon O' soon we
Shalt fly, like sparrow's to their abode; fly-free-spirited
Gliding soul's, into the Dominion wherein we shalt know
All, wherein the bomb's wilt not fall, and destruction doesn't
Exist. A place of sworn bliss, where kisses art created
By soulmates of the creator's making.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou) dedication
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
Cosmic kraken,
gelatinous tentacles that choke the ventricles..
air tainted by its pungent pores...
daylight darkens,
its presence hearkens,
for the light to shine no more...
Heart is hardened
vestigial veins with not blood but pain...
wrinkled cartilage writhes at lore..
of the divine despair
I now come to bear,
graces this unworthy *****
"I beg I pardon!
spare me the road to your celestial abode!"...
whispered screams that scrape throat raw...
silence snares...
at my futile affairs...
with the sadistic nexus between doors...
"Oh I cannot fathom
creature with unworldly features...
and blade fashioned from nebulous ore...
what terrors await...
and to permeate....
my flesh forevermore!"
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 11:39 AM UTC
a bean like no other
bitter and white;
a microscopic dynamite,
peristalsis using all its might
my cave so suspenseful and hollow
ridges lined along its curves
churning to my so-called mental benefit
those gastric juices now released,
microscopic dynamite
simply had one more muscle to defeat
a match at last perceived
microvilli yearning love ,
in, it took the dynamite.
yet confused it became as
micro relations only last a short while.
"Nutrients" absorbed,
betrayal on its way
the bloodstream sent in shock
oh such bloodless atriums
oh such vaulted ventricles.
oh how my blood flow met its end.
Although deceiving it had been
no promises were riven
the dynamite exploded
and at last
no longer was I broken.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
They said the fairest of the goddesses
Was the one to give us love,
The one to fetch the maidens
And bring the boys their girls.
What they meant by fair was beautiful,
Not just or right or equitable,
For it hardly seems fair
That she's a goddess,
Enthroned on a mountain with a mirror in her hand
And we're all of us mere mortals,
Hapless humans,
With our ribcages wide open,
With no bone to shield our vulnerable ventricles
And no sense to tell us to cover our chests.
It's no wonder that this otherworldly seduction
Can ****** us
And string us along
And consume us
Until we forget what life was
Before love caught us.
It seems impossible
That these frail, impermanent bodies
Can hold such ethereal infatuation;
It's too strong,
So it ravages us,
Strips away dignity,
Rips away common sense,
And seizes all control.
Our little human selves
Never stood a chance.
Tell me, Aphrodite,
Does it make you laugh to watch us struggle?
From your lofty vantage point,
Do you giggle when the rational become foolish,
When the thinkers become unfocused,
When the innocent become broken?
Does it please your fair reflection
When those devoted mortals go to ungodly lengths
For this love that you inflict,
Until they have nothing left of themselves,
Until they're worn to the very bones
That couldn't protect their unsuspecting hearts?
Do you revel in the irony,
Aphrodite,
When, exhausted and dejected
And downright tortured,
They still worship you?
When they bow
And sacrifice
In gratitude?
When we miserable mortals
Thank you for these feelings that destroy us,
Because for tiny moments
We felt transcendentally good.
Perhaps she'd had better intentions,
That goddess Aphrodite,
Thought that she was filling our open hearts
With something to give them meaning.
Maybe she thought
We'd left our ribcages open on purpose,
That we'd all simply been waiting for her,
Wondering when she'd reach down her power
And give us a love to cling to.
Or,
It could be that she had it right,
That our chests were left gaping
And our hearts were left empty
So that Aphrodite could look away from her mirror,
Smile from the clouds,
And send us someone to make us whole.
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC
pain demands to be felt..
that is why you let break ups feel like shards of glass piercing through your skin,
"i was using you" feel like acid being pumped through your heart ventricles spewing liquid anguish through your veins
you let the memories consume your very existance so all that is left is the skin he once touched, the lips he once kissed and the emotions he still controls..
yes, pain does demand to be felt
but you see, i am pain.
i embody every syllable of that painful word..pain
i am every lie woven intricately into the seams of the pillow used to cushion the blows i inflict.
i leave you trapped in the very depths of your mind, made easy by your naive attempt of grasping onto the words used to lure you in, i love you
i am the whispers of motivation urging you to sniff sniff sniff your way deeper into my domain where you are nothing but a chess piece in a battle not easily won.
i am the deep seated hunger that devours any sign of "happy"..the breaking, smashing, burning of hope
i am a master of deceit, carefully manipulating your thoughts through the simple tug of a string, i am your master.
but I was not born like this,
I became it..so if you really think about it,
I am love, because love was the reason I became pain.
this may be confusing, but once again think about it..
love demands to be felt...
that is why you sit smiling awkwardly at your phone,
why you get butterflies..I mean the whole **** zoo in your stomach when he looks your way,
you let your feelings consume your very existence until all that is left of you is the hand he holds so tight, the hair he moves away from your face and the heart you laid right out for him...
yes, love demands to be felt..
but you see, I once was love..
I embodied every syllable of that beautiful word love
I was the roof over-head when the storms of life came thundering by,
I was anything you needed me to be because at the end of the day I didn't want to be anything if I didn't have you.
So I let myself go, I became my own foe
just so you could have that shoulder, I mean that extra soul to lean on
you kept taking and never giving,
this one sided love became toxic
I took one look at myself and realised that I didn't know who was staring back at me..
much like how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly,
but the reverse, I began to shrink.
the butterflies turned to moths, the smiles to tears and soon enough,
love became pain,
and they both demand to be felt.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
A dying man does nothing easy,“Lock and load. Let's do it”,said G.W. Green
Right before Jack Pursley sent 3-5 grams of sodium thiopental coursing through his veins
in Texas. Sticking with the states motto it was probably 5. As lethal drugs flowed into his arms, he used an obscenity to describe life, gasped once and made no further movement.
Imagine his brief confidence in the face of this adversity, before the heart’s blood
Settled in the ventricles.
Some have called such confidence a monstrosity titled, “Hubris”--
Alexander of Macedonia thought it necessary, to cross the turbulent river against fear
-ful odds. For destiny demanded imitation of his exemplar Achilles
Quickly eroded was this by the pleas of Parmenio, who reasons it would be,“failure at the outset.”
Imagine Alexander reciting the words of G.W. Green, instead of heeding to this squelching caution
How quickly we’d throw this decisions bones in the pile, with ******
In Stalingrad & Nixon in Vietnam
All to be shoved in to, a mass grave of faulted zealots.
Covered with soil, bitter compost not to be forgotten
Rosemary sprouts next to a burning
bush in Iraq.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
Some mornings, heartbreak is in your bones, settled deep inside though you can’t seem to recall sending the invitation.
Your rib cage stands like the bare tree of fall, the wind whistling through it’s frail branches, tapping on your window as if to remind you, you are alone.
Some mornings, heartbreak is in your skull, in the crevices of the pale blue casing that surrounds your every thought, the broken dreamcatcher trying to keep the evil away.
But ghosts can float between the bars, slip inside your deepest secrets, with no regret or remorse for making you cry out in the night.
Some mornings, heartbreak is in your spine, intertwining like ivy on a lamp post, leaving you begging for someone else to hold your own head up for you.
Comfort resides in the hours spent cut off from reality, for at least you have control of that, though the dreams leave you franticly reaching in the night for something unknown to even you.
Some mornings, heartbreak finds it’s way back to your heart, slides through the valves, into the ventricles, mixing with the blood that gives you life. Heartbreak gives you life. Heartbreak reaches every last corner of your body, crippling you and taunting you, but you are still capable of breathing on your own. Heartbreak may be a thief, but you are a statue, broken and crumbling around the edges but still standing after all these years.
Some mornings, heart break is in your body. It seems to make up the essence of you, but it is not your being. You are your being.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
Got 0 followers, but one tongue, and that's perfectly ok...
cause I got
two eyes
two nostrils
two hands
two ears
two ventricles
they all
follow me
all riders
on the one tongue
that speaks my piece
that finds poetry
on ***** streets
in closed places
and in the
if's of our lives
that makes writing
in one common tongue
so **** desirable
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
Everything she writes is tagged
#DEPRESSION
You break my heart, know.
Even with these chemical
bonds holding me together,
these frail spiderwebs
weaving around ventricles,
you shatter them like a
calm breeze, playing child,
a secret told to the wrong set of ears.
The characters in (y)our plays [on words]
are the crux of (y)our matters.
We're all ancillary like stepping stones;
pity (y)our destination begs leaving
no stone unturned.
My stepping stones are tablets, though.
20mg doses of baby steps,
crossing voids like I see in (y)our eyes.
My mouth is cavernous,
my throat the steps to hell
(wide and steep and too easy to trip down).
Each night - a crusade to save me.
Each morning - a body count.
One. Good enough for me.
Each time I sign on - the body count grows.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
perched in a thick mess of pine trees
my head rotates three hundred and sixty degrees
scouring for the vermin I make my prey
I own the night time skies
silhouetted against a harvest moon
death is coming in my dreams
and with it comes new life
wisdom of the self
aware of the lies which cover the world in its blanket of grey snow
the owl lives in my skull
The coyote stalking the empty desert highways
looking for roadkill
looking for the weak and alone
I cackle into the dead sterile air
for every pack member lost to poachers
manic laughter for every left turn which results in dead ends
stealthy patient
hungry and haunting
the coyote treads the territory of my atriums and ventricles
The hawk circles in the blinding midday sun
a deadly serrated dagger with wings
arrow let loose from the quiver of the Gods
impossible to tether and domesticate
finding ultimate freedom in the vast openness of the sky
lock on,
tuck the wings,
nose dive deep into the waters of the ****
a creator
a teacher
a messenger of truth
the hawk soars in the infinity of my soul
ID
EGO
SUPEREGO
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Lighting the candle at both ends
Watching the slow burn of the fuse
Waiting for the inevitable explosion
The one that blew our world apart
Leaving me seemingly lifeless
Hanging on by the ventricles of my heart
Shrapnel in every part of me
Attempting to inch my way
away from you
Without you noticing
Before you can stop me
With your empty promises
And never ending lies
That I fall for every time
Piecing myself together
And finding some solid ground
Learning how to move forward
From the destruction
in which I was starting to drown
Wondering
If we’re as toxic as everyone says
Or if upon introspection
We might be even worse
How do I sever these ties
Knowing that love is not enough
To save a sinking ship.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
I'm ruptured whole and am considered
inadequate
as my
amygdala slides through the trachea drops to my ventricles falls through the aorta plunges to my diaphragm hits the esophagus crashes to my phalanges. There is no hope.
May I hold something over your cranium?
May I remind you of your neuron imbalance? And yet
you sit and
watch as
my septum separates from the left atrium from the right ventricle from the bicuspid from the tricuspid from the pulmonary semi-lunar valve.
I love you. (Stupid cerebral cortex.)
I love you. (Imprudent Broca's area.)
I love you. (Hopeless frontal lobe.)
I love your nonfunctional mind and functional soul and
Well
this is all a metaphor for unrequited love.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
you're my lens refraction, my solar flare
my beautiful occupation with long dark hair
because I've got you under my skin, deep
in my heart, you occupy my ventricles
even as we're apart
your forehead to mine we have been,
sharing an energy more palpable
than reality itself
nothing
nobody
can take that from us
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
in the crackling dawn
firebuds burn,
electric
spirit cells lit
in aeortic pulse
ventricles open
to a psychic doorway
stepping through,
she remembers it
that ember
of arcane ritual
divination of
intimate fires
ancient inner knowledge
sparked
Now is a time
for mourning
for celebration
for resurrection
tears streaming
like cool rivers
her palms splayed
reaching up
spilling over
her breath
as steady
as the stars
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC
I am a ghost among ghosts
in an inescapable town filled
with judgmental eyes peering
around sharp corners and
through closed doors. My
pumping pink ventricles
are turning white
with every passing second
that I spend waiting for something
with life to cross my trail.
Unfortunately, holding my breath
for things that
never come has become a
***** habit that I can't rid of,
and my lungs are brittle from the
compressed breaths and
toxic cigarette smoke I subject them
to. They say it takes
twenty one days to stop habits,
but an hour doesn't pass without
me thinking of all the reasons
I am unwillingly invisible and
how you made me this way. The
only thing that acknowledges my
form are clocks,
and they only remind me,
with every tick and grind,
that I am one unit of time closer to
being another collection of
dismembered bones
covered in dirt with a
chunk of stone telling others
my label and a saying that tries to
put meaning in something
that was never going to matter.
Many say that I am being
morbidly negative about my
existence, and maybe their right,
but on good days I like to think that
maybe i was meant to be
good fertilization for lovely flowers
that a senseless boy will pick for a
troubled girl someday.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
i tried to eat my whole heart raw once.
but i could not stomach it. could not stomach the noxious ventricles down my throat, could not swallow the bollus of unfleshly pink carnage.
so i broke it into pieces and i blamed you instead, because it seemed easier to say you broke me than to say that i ever loved you.
i.
this is how you broke me :
whenever i thought of you ******* her i would think of dying inside.
dying is a blessing.
dying is the movie that i am too young to watch but too old to resist. dying is divinity, it is paradisical death in slow motion, an entity mushrooming in between the eyes of a decaying rabbit. it is tears being ****** back into the eyes of a small girl, legs apart, ***** ripped, the fruitlessness of futility bleeding out like saliva from a mouth. dying is being idle, dying is being able to think without questioning existence, dying is a moth, paled by smoke.
it is that tuesday night i promised myself i would never write again
if all i wrote was about you.
ii.
this is how i broke myself :
whenever i thought of you dying inside her, i would think of *******
******* is a blessing.
******* is the reason an orchid can sing without a stigma. ******* is the malformation of your tongue when you say " i hate myself, because i hate you, but i hate you more. ". ******* is about three blocks away from love. ******* and love are probably secret **** buddies. ******* is saying you love her. ******* is saying you love me. ******* is that heart-shaped bruise that you left on my wrist, that tuesday night you ***** me and called it love. ******* is telling me i am not her.
this disposition of 'her', the realisation she plays a better 'her', than i play 'her', the realisation that she stole 'her' from me, when'her' was a dream both of us could hope to fake.
iii.
why people are kept broken:
you once told me, while ashing out a cigarette on my neck,
"it is better to stay broken so nothing else can ever break you again."
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
Your violet iris leaves me naked
as your half-cocked upper lip remains stalwart while
a single drop of salt water backlash slips over,
falling to the ruin
where I tear your ventricles and,
blindly,
walk away.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Zenia Argos is tired. Tired to her ventricles, but still curious. She might possibly have told the right person on a certain type of night in the right kind of bar that she defined herself by her curiosity. Now she felt that her strange mind and her odd ways probably overwhelmed her and had thereby come to define her.
~^~
Zenia not only felt undefined, she felt amorphous.
Like a ghost in a black silk raincoat and black patent leather stiletto heels, she stalked through airports and the gutters of various cities. She forgot to ask herself meaningful questions. She forgot to ask herself any questions at all.
~^~
One day in some unbelievably high-numbered floor of a high-rise hotel in a city whose name she had forgotten she woke up in a luxurious enough bed with a body on the other side of it, face turned away from her. Her brain tossed up only this inane phrase, which repelled and fascinated her at the same time.
"Age has it's privileges"
First thought after that was a silly image of an actual ledge, outside of a high rise building such as the one she found herself in at the moment. With a cartoon cat and a cartoon Zenia fighting to stay on the edge, and comically slipping, hilariously falling, and hanging on, in fast forward and then reverse, and she lay there with her eyes closed and watched the vaudeville show for as long as it took to run through it's loop several times.
~^~
Then she wondered why she was thinking in perfume ad cliches, especially ones from decades, perhaps many decades ago?
This prompted her to jump, catlike, from prone, to alert, and holding her gun from beneath pillow, scanning the room.
Nope.
Not a perfume ad.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC