"verticals" poems
Every time I look around
And ponder the things we obtain
listening to the winds sound
coming from beyond the terrain
Filling my soul from inside
Brushing all the stress and pain
Opening my eyes on a side
That we are all a brain!
Not only does an ***** feed on blood supplies
But It's how you stay sane
It's where your personality lies
It's where the great thoughts ingrain
We search for miracles
And we have one; our heads maintain
Nerve cells with the shape of verticals
Are that only what brains contain ?
Our souls lie within
We try not to let them drain
Our dreams, our memories are all in
They are like an unlimited chain
We love, we live, we write our story with a pen
On a marvelous paper called a brain
Our blood is our ink
And it keeps circultaing all over again
You receive, it responds
That is why we feel pain
But emotions are like ponds
Happiness, passion and the excitement we gain
In the most difficult predicaments
You tend to use your brain
With it you overcome impediments
Which makes your way plain !
10% is all what we use
But don't you ever complain
It's a gift that we shouldn't abuse
However, a gem you must retain
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Everything is happening so quickly
so many negatives surpassing the
insignificant glimpse of positives
that never seem to suffice,
there’s always this light at the
end of the tunnel that everyone
speaks of, yet i continue to see darkness;
a journey down this long tunnel brings
no illumination but only a continuance
of nihility, the damp walls
seem to bring the chill humidity
closer and closer with each step,
the droplets echo the narrowing,
flickering lights dissipate at passing,
the gag sparking stench of sewage
and ***** make the voyage to
light even more unbearable than the
previous hesitant inching towards
the so called spoken about bearability of life,
sudden scintillations of light bring sight
of russet, worn doors, consecutively placed,
discoloured of crimson roadkill,
I open the first door and see a woman
tied and bound, gag in throat,
beads of sweat turning the white gag
to watered milk,
the dirt beneath her nails entwines with skin
and blood dredged by her own fingertips,
to front is a tray of what seems like
torture tools
*intrigued, I slam the door
and avoid a kiss
from Judas*
The next door, I open and see a man
sitting facing the corner,
wrapped in a flickering fan,
staring at a wall of carvings of ticks and dashes,
to see arms of cuts and gashes,
with a tray next to him
comprised of razors and knives
he sits picking at skin of bruises and hives,
tempted to grab the tool and corrode self,
with the reflection of whats within, I slam the door
and avoid
Finally the third door
eagerly stares to
me with anticipation boiling veins,
I press my ear to foreshadow,
I hear a cries; a man of hatred
and a woman of pain
I open the door and find a bottle of whiskey
I take a swig and feel as if Judas kissed me,
Within the third door; walls
with peepholes to confirm the calls
on the left I see the sliding knife
over-panting roadmaps of russet to
the neck of the bound woman,
the screams are deafening,
they present a vibration,
stuttering thoughts, and releasing the fixation,
prompting the admiration
to view the second door,
I see myself, in door 2
tremors and convulsions
seeing blood expel every vein
as the verticals
halt oxygen to the brain
Departure brings me
to the abysmal realm of society
where the burden of negativity
proves to provide no proof towards what
differs between the endless, narrow
tunnel-visioned cesspool of bone marrow
and psychosis driven visions and the
narrow pathed voyage of life.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
This poem is written by Majd Al Deen and I ...
I wish you consider it as well as enjoy it
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Every time I look around
And ponder the things we obtain
listening to the winds sound
coming from beyond the terrain
Filling my soul from inside
Brushing all the stress and pain
Opening my eyes on a side
That we are all a brain
Not only does an ***** feed on blood supplies
But It's how you stay sane
It's where your personality lies
It's where the great thoughts ingrain
We search for miracles
And we have one; our heads maintain
Nerve cells with the shape of verticals
Are that only what brains contain ?
Our souls lie within
We try not to let them drain
Our dreams, our memories are all in
They are like an unlimited chain
We love, we live, we write our story with a pen
On a marvelous paper called a brain
Our blood is our ink
And it keeps circultaing all over again
You receive, it responds
That is why we feel pain
But emotions are like ponds
Happiness, passion and the excitement we gain
In the most difficult predicaments
You tend to use your brain
With it you overcome impediments
Which makes your way plain !
10% is all what we use
But don't you ever complain
It's a gift that we shouldn't abuse
However, a gem you must retain
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
i find myself using this red string as an excuse, a muse, something to abuse. i used to pull it tight around my wrists and lose it in rosy verticals. it hurt until the pull choked and made it numb, numb until it wasn’t there and if it isn’t there than it isn’t a problem. it’s once in a while, it’s periodical. i snapped back lying on my floor without a pulse, stood up and threw away the rusty blades. sabbatical.
i found myself using this red string as an excuse, a muse, something to abuse. when you choose to bruise cause you have nothing left to lose. the soldier who made it out with everything intact except for what’s in his head, but that blood runs clear so they ignore it instead.
i almost used this red string as a noose. but now i’m playing double-dutch, catching fishing lines and throwing beams of orange and blues. sing me a song, porcelain. you taught me how to swim.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
Of various channel partners
Of diverse pacts and packages
By instinct or instance
Love has different verticals
Verticals by relation,
Between
You and your spouse
Children, parents,
Friends, neighbors, society
Country and humanity
Verticals by profession,
Between
You and your job
Your boss, colleagues
Your maids, sub-ordinates,
Your clients, well wishers
Verticals by nature,
Between
You and your environs,
Pets n’ creatures
Greenery n’ scenery
Wide, vivid and vivacious
Love, the spectrum,
Rules and limits unruly life
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
This is poem written by Lisel Mueller (according to google). I just wanted to share it because I couldn't find it on here and it's one of my favourite poems ever.
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC
Behind almost all things
Where the trees meet the edge of the frame
It could have been not this but that
In the distance is a darker shape
Its position decided on a collection.
Falling like snow without regularity
The canvas surface is patches of colour
Horizontals and verticals intersect
The park with its green avenues
Glides in and out of a century of stories.
Its conclusion resting
On a final brush stroke.
Love Mary xxxxx
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC