"victimization" poems
I.
“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”
-Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window
Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death
Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone
II.
Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…
-Doctor Zhivago, p. 349
Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd
Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death
Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades
III.
“I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”
-Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light
Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied
With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
Land of the free
you seem to call it
But the freedom
only seems to fall
on one end of the spectrum
one side of the scale
And when the scale tries
so excruciatingly
to balance itself
When it comes crashing down
in an attempt to be heard,
to make a sound,
It is met with cries of outrage;
With a selfish victimization of,
“what about us?”
“don’t we matter too?”
but that’s not the point,
now is it?
The scale
isn’t screaming out any less
for the importance of
one side
by trying to give an inch of importance
to the disregarded other.
Black Lives Matter.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
Stuck to an icy
history of thought,
the habitual web caught
the Fly in its enticing
display of verbs
that match the pattern:
language is the matter,
betraying ourselves with words.
A tongue to its Work tied
might make the spider
think twice before biting;
those venomous lies
we tell our Selves about
helplessness and somedays
victimization and blame,
empowering our self-doubt;
∴
Devouring our might as writers,
we have nothing if not pride;
We take flight to the deepest parts
of the universe of literature.
Neither nihilistic nor cynical,
our linguistic is made of visuals.
Verily we write with studious care,
veracity a common trait we share:
We are an orchestra,
a symphony of synchronised melody.
Epiphanies emphasize tragedies
that consume us repeatedly --
We seek to
link our verses
and feel deep connections
when engulfed by depression
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
A Borivali slow,
Was on platform four,
Being young and swift,
With least bit of strain,
I boarded the train.
There wasn't place to sit,
So amidst the uproar,
I stood at the door.
An aged lady of seventy-four,
Indulged us in a tale of yore.
Of a frightful night,
When her entire world,
Was ruthlessly hurled,
Into fear and plight,
Into treacherous gore,
A tale so abhor.
with fine detail,
She narrated her tale,
And had us engrossed,
Our minds embossed,
She was a slave,
Who tried to save,
Her body frail,
Which was put for sale.
"A young girl of thirteen I was", she said
"Physically alive but mentally dead.
I was sold like cattle,
My modesty stripped,
soul ripped,
My insides would rattle,
As I would be led,
To a different bed.
In words I cannot convey,
From where I drew strength one day,
During the dastardly act,
I took my chance and attacked.
I fled the scene,
And ran all day,
Tried to escape far away.
Partially clothed or under a veil,
Being a woman makes you frail,
We are a prey to beastly eyes,
Unheard are our cries.
My story will make your heart sink,
And force you to think,
While you soundly sleep,
There are women who weep.
Somewhere there is a woman
trying to escape,
From the clutches of victimization and **** "
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
White american men with
gold retriever dogs
smoke black hatred,
not recognizing a grey smog.
Scared of black, brown --
all atheists are ill --
but not afraid of greenbacks
or guys named Bill.
Okay.
Here's your day job. Here's your pay, Bob.
America the great.
If terrorists equal Muslim
then Christians equal hate.
You say it's not victimization.
You say it's not a hunt.
You say it's not intimidation,
but sometimes I think you
see people as witches, ****
Christ is the answer, indeed.
Without Him we're all lost
and our souls will never be freed.
Like tears frozen in the frost.
Bibles, crucifixes to fix the diseased mind.
How much does a prayer have to cost
to be genuinely kind?
Chemtrails stain pages
and bleed as curses.
Gay rights to be denied,
according to bible verses.
Nursery rhymes and cult games,
all in the good old King James.
Archaic and inane,
like an alter sheltered brain.
Here's your day job. Here's your pay, Bob.
Use the check to pay
angels and evangelists.
Protect yourself from ideas,
and buy a white picket fence.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
The world was crashing before her eyes and the movie was playing
over and over.
Blood flowing through her air, wiped off by bright colors she despised.
She lived in a dream she wanted to fall asleep to.
She whistled and weeped and wrecked and wed widows
who walked among different grounds than her
She plotted fresh and icy white droplets of mint in her mouth, awaking her morning breath
She masked her soul in itchy wool sweaters and her emotions in
pounds of make up
Melodies and harmonies are plucked by strings. A voice and a wooden guitar create
A symphony of truths
Something never articulated in a conversation was flowed out through this cold and curved instrument and on pure sheets of paper
Piles of pages of stories of those relating to the villains inside our hearts,
All honesty is gone in modern stories of victimization.
A relation to the simple days is caressed in moments of weakness.
Crying the Sh’ma to her God,
to the ferocious tiger,
the trustworthy elephant,
and the regretful giraffe.
A bond reflected through gold and a diamond reveals more hatred and despair than the love and commitment it was given for.
Songs sung sounded of serenades and lullabies all were real abominations and a nuisance
among her razor.
The flame flew away back at camp, all that is left is wax in her seemingly well pampered box. The fire’s flame was filled with water.
Oh, what a cancer.
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
A world of hurt, a world of pain,
Where money grants power, beauty and fame.
How much is a life truly worth?
Does business really value planet Earth?
Plundered landscapes,
Ruined towns,
Broken families,
Childhood frowns.
Societies run on victimization,
Depravity rife throughout the nation.
Corrupt Politicians, lawyers and banks,
Streets governed with soldiers and tanks.
Look at the world you think you know,
Watch nature die and economy grow.
Witness the truth with your own two eyes,
As the soul of Africa withers and dies.
It's lost children,
Starving, dying, still, in this generation,
No food, no food,
No basic education.
When the last forest finally falls,
Will it be greeted with rapturous applause?
It's time to wake up to the truth,
Before there's nothing left for the youth.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 5:44 PM UTC
Furrowing deep with claws blood-stained,
into dirt, a heap of heavy ashes,
too depressed to flow with the wind,
or dance with breezes sprung from heels clicking past,
I sink.
These ashes reside
from my burnt body.
Wrinkled edges, dim, clotted blood,
a heart suffocated by the flame
of victimization.
Take a scalpel to my remains,
mutilate my body, my Self, all that remains,
stitch on male genitalia,
or chop my hair off,
none can remain, none can remain.
Gorge out my fat, reveal
gaping white bones;
none can remain.
An emergency room
(a yew)
A home with quiet time at 2:00
(an ever-green)
A place with after-meal support
(a willow)
A pile of *****
(a palm)
A fresh crimson cut
(a pine)
I met you.
(before it was too late)
You ****** me into the arms of a God
And you placed a Bible underneath my bare feet.
I stumbled and cut my heel on its edges
and watched the blood seep into the welcome mat.
When you first gently unlaced my blouse
flashes, images, screeching memories flew back in
shattering porcelain glass.
But a look in your eyes
soothed the tempest
and I drifted along with your rhythmic tides.
I once said I wanted to be a tree.
(Nothing more than still wood.)
I once felt like a million dollars wasted.
Swallowing the moon and the stars so bright.
Now I say
overlooking shy tulips, so young, so young,
Humanity is a house abandoned
and in you and Him have I found
the warmth that tiptoes across my chest,
like the pit of a peach radiating sweet, sweet nectar.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
I can feel it.
Ticking,
Counting down the seconds,
Minutes, hours,
Days, weeks,
Years, decades
Of the minor insignificant preamble to death that is my life.
I am responsible for this bomb.
I built the entire thing myself.
I let them fool me.
I let them play with my mind,
As if it were a ball being carelessly kicked and tossed
Through a field of lies and victimization.
I am the victim of my own bomb.
The only one strapped to it.
Trying day after day to escape its fatal clutch,
Yet clinging to it with dear life.
I need the bomb.
It gives me hope.
Hope that this will all be over.
Hope that none of this really matters,
That life is nothing but a preparation for death.
I hate the bomb.
It creates fear in me.
Fear that I am but a minor proton in the body of the world.
Fear that I am the target of all of humanity’s evil.
It makes me forget why I am here,
Why I keep going on every day.
I forget about my bomb squad.
I forget about all the things diffusing my bomb.
I forget to seize the day
And decrease the weight of other people’s bombs.
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
I wake up with a stabbing pain,
I force myself to wake up from this nightmare,
and when I finally look in the mirror...
"Wait, what? How did that happen?"
There's violet and crimson marks on me.
They're encapsulating me,
making me feel like I deserved this,
and I did.
The shrinks in their ivory towers tell you
To not be afraid,
Stand up for yourself,
Show them what you're made of, and to
Never back down.
I'm pinned to the floor,
and my legs are paralyzed.
I was left in a puddle of my own pulpy, ****** mess.
and it's my fault.
His voice echoes in my mind.
"Maybe if you didn't act this way, I wouldn't do this,
You're a terrible person and I feel sorry for the people who think you're not. Nobody loves you. People would throw you out in the street if they knew what you've done."
That was the night that he took everything from me,
He took my freedom,
He took my ability to communicate,
He took everything from me,
And he doesn't know why.
Sometimes, I don't know why he does these things.
Isolation consumes me like cable news telecasters consume the minds of sheep, and everyone is programmed to think and act as if the world is coming to an end.
Everyone acts like a victim.
There's two parts to such an accusation;
Victimization
Survival
But, there's a third part that no one tells you about.
Coping mechanisms
I can't stand up for myself.
"You're worthless."
I can't show them what I'm made of.
"Nobody loves you."
Berating, belittling, and biting me with your words.
It shows more scars on me than your fists.
"Why do you do this to me?"
"You must not care about how I feel."
"Why are your crying? Are you pitying yourself?"
"Have you realized that what you've done is wrong?"
"When will you learn?"
I'm not your child.
I'm not your lover.
Make a safety plan,
Get out while you still can,
Don't blame yourself.
You have every right to react the way you want
When he's not treating you right.
Don't let him gaslight you.
You've been through this before.
Don't let him get to you.
You're better than that.
You
are
a
survivor.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
Still waters run deep
A pansexual ideology burrows farther
Gorge yourself on self-victimization
Fault rests in your skinny fingers, slipping
Swallow it and drown in your laughable appeal
They've got nothing on me
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 8:44 PM UTC
some topics are taboo.
it seems this is so,
at the root, these lies,
discover you and me.
our natural true beings.
so there they stay
cloaked in a definition of taboo,
almost respectfully,
sitting for centuries,
gaining energy, changing mind.
I say let's dig out these, too.
re-defining will take time,
though today a word,
a thought, a stream of us
came through,
can I hash this out with you?
victimization - it's synonyms are
deception, fake, con, fraud,
deceit, dodge.
dodge...
the antonyms, truth, reality, honesty,
peace...
dodge peace,
sure this is only a piece,
it's these things I need to talk through,
is this revolutionary for you, too?
**** victimization is a hoax,
well, of course, suffering is choice,
we are the power of the stars,
ok, let's see...
it seems, WE,
collectively
needed a break from the murky
waters of Pisces, like WE
need expansion in all forms of
technology.
it doesn't free though because we
think we can be victimized, governed.
now, hold on,
we create what we see,
so we victimize ourselves? (I choose to govern me)
instead of choosing to suffer
we can choose to create a new reality.
the subtleties are deafening now!
groping at my sleeves
begging to get out,
to be launched down
inject the network with our worth.
birth to death to birth,
we are God, source,
new definitions must be formed,
new books written,
new paradigms were living,
be free or not,
it's your choice.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
hours have been spent
hours of me, staring at myself
not in a mirror, not at a picture
but of my words
and,
i've come to realize that i have been wrong
and i have been wronged
emotion and pain are understandable but,
how can these words possibly explain how i feel
i've been thinking of someone else for too long
my problems aren't contingent on our relationship at the moment...
because that's pathetic and weak and it's not me
nor will i let it become me
i've been wrong
i cant blame you for not loving me
i cant blame the world for believing that my feelings toward you...
are unrequited
and i wont blame myself either
as a writer...
as a person...
the type of person i am...
it's difficult to call my previous prose and poems
"works of self victimization"
even if they are,
they're still art
**** what everyone else thinks
**** the world
**** everyone
but i will never say **** you" to myself
and that is where i have been wrong
it's going to take more than this
one, long, grievance
to mitigate...
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
I changed my mind
I have the right to be angry and the right to be hurt
You hurt me and I won't let that go until you say "I'm sorry"
And I take back that comment about "self victimization"
**** that entire concept
If I am a victim of someone else's careless actions, I remain sane in writing it down
I can think of myself however I want to
I was NOT wrong
I was right in every sense of the word because I conveyed the emotion that will never slip through my mouth
It's the emotion that will only pour out of my eyes
and out of my heart
It;s the emotion that is surreal, yet my reality
NO
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
They told me that I was difficult to love
I need someone to say "you have suffered enough" to me
Tell me to turn myself around
Tell me that life has been terrible to me and that I have a choice and a right to make things better
The suffering I've endured is surreal
Simply because at every prior moment to suffering
I thought it couldn't get any worse
but it does get worse
and it eats away at me
mentally and physically
I am suffering
my head feels like its been pounded against a concrete wall
my eyes can't focus on a single object
my stomach turns because I'm starving and too stressed to eat
I wake up and all I see is fog because my glasses can't be found and my mind's too tired
I become lost in my suffering
lost in my life
scathing acquaintances and hating authority
blaming every ounce of pain on unfortunate circumstances
self victimization
it's disgusting
pain is relative but this is too much
still I step through the darkness
and tipie-toe my way into anything lit
there's nothing there for me
When I say "someone"
it used to mean him
now it means anyone
tell me to turn myself around because I need to rise up above the morning fog
they told me that I was difficult to love
prove them wrong, someone
anyone
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
Sitting at the bottom
Of the sun-kissing tower
Rapunzel,
I hear you crying for help
Could I make a suggestion?
Stop cutting your hair
And blaming the scissors
Instead of your own hand.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
What is a poet if not a victim?
For he seems to be the only exception to a world of goodness.
Oh, what better way to depict him, than his own victimization?
What is a poet if not a child?
Granted, some are aged, but they all whine.
What is a poet if not broken?
He does mention his glass shards on the frequent.
Do keep in mind that he will never be doing fine.
What is a poet if not psychotic?
For him and all his kind appear to be mad.
What is a poet if not sad?
Spoiled minds of the depressed kind truly are poetic.
What is a poet if not contradictive?
For him, it's quite addictive.
What is a poet if not guilty?
For he may not always have the ability to plea innocent and play the victim.
What is a poet if not old?
Granted, some are young, but they're all wise.
What is a poet if not whole?
He is full of courage, he is bold.
So tell me, how is he not whole?
What is a poet if not sane?
Sure, he may be vain and a little odd, but he does write with utter sanity.
What is a poet if not glad?
He writes of love and purple lips.
Though his happiness may dip, he truly is a joyous soul.
What is a poet if not a fool?
He does accuse and misconstrue.
What is a poet if not a man, just like me and you?
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
Its been hard to write
My tongues' tied tight
My thoughts lay light
I cant dive deep in my thoughts
Or I could drown tonight
The water in my lungs
Is filling up my eyes
The songs I've sung
Arent doing me right
"I've been living lies." I say
The therpist replies
"What do you mean, are you alright?"
"No, if he ever came into my sight.
I wouldnt just fight him
I think I might shot him in the thigh
Throw away his perverted crack high,
Ask him if hes a fine. If he replies, continue to shot him until he isnt alive."
Thought
The gunshots loud
I pout thinking about what he
did to his son and I
Some things I could never say aloud
End Thought
"Woah, how come you hate him?"
"Because he shaped my life then
.... until now."
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
I wonder what it means to be called an abomination
and if this has any relationship to being a damnation,
as there must be certain things that people do in deserving condemnation
which go against all reasonable human laws and are opposed to salvation.
If what has been handed down from the past is any indication
then we are somehow all obliged to follow with a dedication,
for our own sakes and that of all our so called many relations
who are subject to the same weaknesses, trials and temptations.
To some it may seem there need not be any restriction
which will generally only incur a justifiable conviction
for any laws broken and usually dealt with a harsh sanction
that blame or guilt can be done away with by a transaction.
There are so many things people do without any justification
except to satisfy their own sense of individual expectation
especially where the actions done are without any provocation
against a fellow human being who’s an object of victimization.
_________________________________________________
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
See not the messages
Lying asunder
Go not to temptation
To beckon my blunder
For under the surface
Observance
Is clear
And my cryptic
Ellipsis
A sickness to fear
But appears
An abstraction
Attraction’s
Blurred vision
And fades
From the page
Like a razed composition
Conveying the grave
Like a bladed
Incision
Still spilling its villainy
Victimization
Of poor little me’s
Permanent
Paid vacation
Upon what is free
Just a fee to exist
And then not just deceased
We will cease to be missed
Like a vanishing wish
Dissipates in the mist
Like a widow
Divorced from reality’s
Kiss
Feb 7, 2023
Feb 7, 2023 at 2:26 AM UTC
I am always sick
Sleep deprived
From nightly drives
Midnight shifts
That I love
I am always sick
A little gassy but afraid
That it won’t be gas
That comes out that way
I am always sick
Tired of all the certainty
Righteous indignity
Self-proclaimed victimization
Of this white conservative nation
I am always sick
Of what my world can justify
How my people can swallow lies
No matter how hard I try
To inspire them to be better
I am always sick
With no end in sight
No angelic tunnel
No godly light
No hope for something more
Than this one life
One day I won’t be sick
But that will be the day I die
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
I wish I could find it amusing to see
How an unevil man is rendered demon
By the cloaking of his good intensions
By female addiction to victimization.
I hold out my broken heart.
You scream at the sight of blood,
Squeeling: *"Murderer! I can see your red
Hands from here! Holding some poor
Thing's
Heart."*
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
To the boys who like girls with eating disorders.
1. Be unafraid to call her beautiful. Feel no hesitation when articulating the grace in her intricacies. The delicacy she wields when flicking back her hair. The shape her semblance set in as she sleeps. The way… she holds a fork.
Even as you call her beautiful you may experience pangs of guilt. Acknowledge that despite your appreciation for her formation you do not want her to be like this forever. Watch as polite small talk and casual compliments get swallowed up by half full plates and half empty stomachs. Watch her try to chew and words you feed.
2. If you make if to boyfriend status. Her disease may begin to look like the ex partner she’s still hung up over. Watch as she quotes all his favorite things he use to tell her. Do not tell me, I look like I’m getting better I can’t look like getting better. She may look like the embodiment of the phrase “old habits die hard”. But remember… Mother taught you patience and forgiveness. When someone abuses you, you may be vocal about it or you may repress it but you do not forget, and boy... she has some scars. Across every angular bone protruding where a body use to be. In every atrophied muscle where disease did once grip and seek to claim something as it’s own. In every mirror. In darker shop windows where that display mannequins sport the latest illness and in every look you give her. There is no vaccination for this victimization. It will take time.
3... If her condition has left her anxious...
Left her white in the face like porcelain plates serving a future that tastes like insecurity.
If her condition has left her hopeless. Left her thinking that a full stomach means an empty future.
If her condition has left her broken, in any sense of the word, he is not without fixture.
She was a woman before she was a victim. She was a person before she was a patient. She is still a woman, she is still a person. She has a destination outside of disorder. She has dreams that could be bigger than these demons.
And 4… and this is not is not for the boys who like girls with eating disorders, this is for the boys who love!
4. Do you think she is worth it? What can you outweigh?.. Can you make her smile, can you... fill her?
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC
They tell us we discriminate because of the color of their skin.
An unjustly comment and they only see us as whites.
Stuck between a now cold war between colors.
They paint an image of victimization as they feel unfairly treated in ancestry years.
I say , get over it.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
I’m genuinely open-palmed to rain… and that skin of yours falling unto... my whole topography… gently sifting… summer showers from… salacious cumulus seduction… I wonder why there’s no escaping bliss… that indescribably sweet torture of… how good it feels to pull apart those ribs… and rip the last remaining strands of victimization... under the influence of sentient ambrosia… and the rivers break out galloping… splashing pirouettes on river banks… caressing, kissing, caressing, kissing… tenderness and passion… drowning hands tightly clenched, screaming madly… “I want you”…
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC