"vitriol" poems
We've become a
civilization of diseases
we build
monuments
statues
institutions
thinking death won't ever find
us here.
Our minds are scrambled
our bodies are damaged
our food is poisoned
our skies are toxic
our vices
are forces of processes
beyond our
control.
When we are not humbled
by nature's power
we inflict our wounds
upon ourselves in
the names of greed
and self protection
and no one knows
what it really means.
Fearful of the silence
we fill our skies with
endless noise
babbling on in endless
monotones, droning
while traffic stalls
at a hot stand still
idling engines
idling souls
depletion of every last glimpse
of the past.
Jam packed
in the stench
I am lost today
in
this vitriol
as anxiety, death and desperation
from every corner
screams my name.
That's why I came
to these woods
where the illusion of
peace remains
as
wild fires burn
just down the lane
as you know
as you say
its always been this way
when bodies hung
at every cross-roads
hunger, power, ignorance
and strength
all ran
the show.
I'm sick with
every disease I
know.
I float upon these tranquil
blue waters
and
we are reminded of the peace we all
really can know.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
bougainvillea!
oh bougainvillea!
what a bougainvillea day!
as we wander the countryside in search of eachother!
-------------
amid the vitriol and the petrol and the pain
------------
amid the words and the imagry
the politicians and the total a--holes
the wasted love and the wasting lovers
the human bodies in full decay!
--------
(and you and I perhaps
amid dreary dreams seeking the one sky's "opening"
seeking the one god's grace
------------
but then
we sing!!!!!
"bougainvillea!
bougainvillea!!!
what an immensely boring bougainvillea day!"
---------
we could of said
"i love you"
but we were too afraid
-----
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 9:48 AM UTC
Sailboat on a purple sea
Yellow skies are all she sees
Lonely Captain at the helm
Lord o’er all her ocean realm.
Sailboat on a purple sea
Sailing through Eternity
The yellow skies reveal her ardor
Searching for inlet or harbor.
Where she can safely drop her anchor
Without hostility or rancor
Stay forever, or a day
If on a whim she sails away.
To search again for other shores
Unmindful of the ocean’s mores.
Sometimes storms impede her course
Fill her journey with remorse
Thunder sounds a deaf’ning roar
Through driving rain, can’t see the shore
Lightning bolts around her flash
As if to call the Captain brash
For thinking that she has control
Over purple ocean’s vitriol.
If ever she regrets her plight
When yellow skies turn dark at night
And midnight storms have lead to loss
She rights the ship and bears the cross
And waits for morning dawn to break
Sun through last night’s rain will make
A rainbow reaching far away
Certainly it will show the way
To steer her sailboat that day.
Sailboat on a purple sea
Yellow skies are all she sees
Buoyant Captain at the helm
Lord o’er all her ocean realm.
PwL 04/21/15
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
The anger in them rises
cause they’ve lost their inner Light;
gone are their chances for Love;
so they rail against the night…
without an understanding.
When blinded by defeat’s grief,
they lash out with their hatred.
Jealous of your victory,
their vitriol is blood red-
stuck in misunderstanding.
Serve Christ and His Kingdom, while
covered with His holiness;
please Him during Life’s routines;
shine brightly with Righteousness.
Live your Life with Faith’s branding.
Wear holy armor each day;
let your joy attract the lost;
revel in Faith’s contentment;
remain grateful for The Cross
and show Love’s understanding!
When you really consider it,
there’s no reason for a debate;
Love doesn’t justify itself,
seeing that… haters gonna hate!
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Prov 9:7-12; 1 Tim 6:6
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
I am from screens and bright machines
that show whole new worlds
that I use to pretend I’m
not living in this one.
I am made of the sharp smell
of artificial apples and cinnamon
burning your throat as you breathe it in
like secondhand smoke.
I am made of lonely days
spent on my phone
pretending to laugh when people say or send something
because I know they need the ego boost.
I am made of late nights
when I shut my phone off
and I start to cry
because I know that no one thinks about me after I go.
I am made of hours spent huddled
as my brother spits vitriol at my parents
and they take it with willing ears and become submissive dogs
with tails between their legs.
I am made of hellfire
carefully bottled up
until someone pushes me to the edge
and I am ready to ****
I am of thousands of cups of black coffee
sobbed over at three am
alone in my kitchen
hands searing, but refusing to let go.
I am from carefully counting every dollar
wondering when
I am allowed
to leave this town.
I am from four am walks
alone through the town
taking in the sights
and praying the sun will rise.
There’s a shattered hand mirror in my room.
Broken glass litters the cold dark marble
and teardrops drip all over the shards,
because even in all of these things that I am,
I am still not good enough for myself.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 10:03 AM UTC
dear western society,
no one cares for the peasant who provides
the pheasant for the royal table -
but when the pheasant isn't there -
the royal orchestra cries out:
where's the pheasant! where's the pheasant!
as if both pheasant and peasant were alike...
indeed, the peasant isn't there to
provide the pheasant for the feast-
and with such vitriol you proudly say:
once these roaming stars that go against
all reason in cosmology disappear, you'll
know that i was here - you'll know -
perhaps the pyramids were only overshadowed
by the Eiffel tower, but many more pyramids
were mentally tattooed into the minds of men -
and rose far greater and were more
harder to overcome that man took to
climbing Everest - stone by stone his legs
encountered a new form of laying brick-on-brick -
for if western society deems me mad
to purge the old hopes of colonial rule - then
i have already chastised my body to have no heart,
and let it be carried on course toward Iran
or Afghanistan - and there entombed -
i hope Western society loves its humour as much
as it loves it's panic and paranoia and picnics
of waiting for the far right to wake up -
and this liberal-leftist mush of kind words to
be shoved into Disneyland of other fantasia.
yours sincerely,
Vermin.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
I offer you this innocence,
come on in,
condemnation
judgement
vitriol
are left on the other side
of the walls of skin.
Hearts may open here
tears may tumble
walls may fall
in this moment between you and me.
We will offer
truths and tenderness
for every imagined sin.
Life's a puzzle
the pieces are in
earthquake shambles scattered
across the floor.
There are places for each puzzle piece
to put together,
we may even find bliss.
Sometimes this life is too complex
too hard to fathom
too easy to plummet,
we all need a place to
explore
unload
forgive.
This is the innocence
feel free to come on in,
your secrets are safe here,
never told by me.
It has been said
we are as sick as our secrets,
burrowing through our eyes
in dark packets of disguise.
But in this sanctuary
lies dissolve
innocence returns,
We find a chance to begin again.
Put down the masks
Put down the resentments
Put down the propped up sorrows
Our truths will set us free.
The door is open
the glowing warmth of connection
is at your disposal,
come speak to me
the accumulated hurts of where you have been,
through these true confessions
hurts pass
not forgotten
but
forgiven.
We can begin again.
The puzzle pieces lost
will be found,
compassion and forgiveness
become our friends.
Abandon all pasts
seen through a child's eyes,
in this time of now
we can become cozy
snuggle up in this warm bath embrace.
Sometimes we all need a place to hide
in all the necessary pillows and comforters.
Either in words or in silence,
we'll find that spot of transformation,
begin again,
once you enter this innocence,
from the tangle
as birds well know,
we can fly free again.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
because it may be sure that...
Never argue with an idiot. They will only bring you down to their level and beat you with experience.
~ George Carlin
and as true as that may be
they underestimate, greatly
that intelligence is a weapon
that will surely defeat them
and while they drag you down
remember, they are beneath your feet
planted firmly upon their crown
ensures you can step up
and the pit they dug for themselves
is where they have to sleep
Always argue with an idiot
for if they drag you down
you can crawl back from their vitriol
and look down upon them
from higher ground
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
There once was a tiny bundle of cells that grew in my womb
without the assistance of fertility medications or ovulation testing
a surprise spontaneous occurrence of the first sparks of Life
a product of the kind of ******* that happens on a honeymoon
between newlyweds full of bliss, lust, and hope
My womb once thought uninhabitable to such an occurrence
boarded a plane home five days later
cradling this new truth-
The Honeymoon Baby
Weeks would pass before my womb would begin to betray its secret
3 days late- nothing
5 days late- nothing
8 days late- the little blue plus sign and a whisper from deep in me-
“You aren’t broken?”
For several hours my womb and I jealously guarded this knowledge
My new husband not known for his enthusiasm wouldn’t share in my joy
So I sat alone feeding my hungry heart on now debunked beliefs
“You AREN’T broken!”
Having gorged myself to the point of bursting on a meal years in the making
I looked with wet eyes to my then partner of more than half a decade
“we made a honeymoon baby; I’m not broken.”
No, he wouldn’t share my joy.
His eyes turned to windows in the days that would follow
They screamed their disgust into the wide open parts of me
as pointedly and with as much passion as his mouth could ever muster
It was then that I began to silently pray the baby away
My silence only increased his vitriol until with a blast he climaxed in his rage
and I felt the cold of the recently adorned wedding band against my neck
as the hands which had held mine so softly so often pinned me to the door
Finally my silent prayers gave way to a singular scream
“I ******* hate you and I hate your child inside of me!”
My womb cried to hear the prayer spoken
She cried so long and so loud that she began to bleed
She heaved and sobbed her rage into rivers of blood that wouldn’t stop for weeks
and earthquakes of cramps that would rock me to my core
The unstoppable current of tears and blood carried the translucent sac
that housed the had been Honeymoon Baby into the ***** porcelain bowl
The baby I prayed away that would never speak whispered up
“You are broken.”
The honeymoon was over.
I hadn’t hated him before that.
Six years later to the day we signed divorce papers.
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 6:19 PM UTC
when you only
see the world
through the prism
of an Instagram filter,
the spectrum's
overshadowed
by black and white
vignettes.
brick-by-brick
you build that wall
around yourself,
closed off to the plight
of every one else.
who needs borders
when you refuse to see
beyond the periphery
of your iPhone's screen?
refugees? border patrol?
endless war?
merely fragmentary
snapshots
in off-kilter
snapchats
casting grim light
on contemporary
outcasts, rebels
built to outlast
the vitriol leveled
at modern-day martyrs
by tyrants and overlords.
'cause when you neglect
to read the passages
of history, you scapegoat
the brave, can't see
the forest for the trees,
reduce the complex
to Manichean binaries
of Good vs. Evil,
Left vs. Right,
an infinite etcetera
of demagoguery.
noses glued
to illuminated screens,
ignoring the visionaries
for illusionary fantasies:
one-click—purchased
happiness, bread
and circus.
advertising
has us chasing
a feeling fleeting
as a riptide when we
ought to be rallying
on the front lines,
punching Nazis.
a black bloc
tossing bricks into
storefront windows.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
Bloom into the awkward moment between birth and death even though it can be tiresome. Aspirational iconoclasts are always minorities. The first real question should be “**What the **** followed perhaps by a shaking of the head. Nurse on passive vitriol and slowly learn to fall in line. Pretend, for this is not the time. It will come but you must be patient. Ambulate with eyes cast downward like the others. The enemy is arrogant in its control; there is their weakness. Let them think that they possess great strength and go so far as to compliment them on it. Meanwhile, nurture the next breed of human. Let them try to fix you and act (as casually as possible) as though they have succeeded. Normality will fail in good time. Truth darkles; it militates against expectation. Embrace the hint of hate in the air by breathing deep. You need to fail to appreciate victory. The defeated night horizon will compliment your jaded eyes. Steal your own art with poise and without pause. Arrive late for the train and ride, tearing in the wind, clinging to its back. Yearn for a chaotic, vibrant death. Know that you were never, ever, alone.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
The beast cobbler somber suited to putrid minions,
And picked apart the whiskers of death and scribed a diction,
"He hath no fury than an arcade weapon scorn"
Tis I blasted through virtual vitriol levels with life unborn,
Licking the literature scriptures and propagandizing dilemma,
I trained Cerberus into a vicious ************
Biting heathens with the molars demons fear to run from,
Too **** farmer to sail away from my problems,
I reaped too many seeds to bleed,
So all your fuming won't do absolute **** to me,
I'm a dark stepchild of instability and fertility,
Shallow stocking delinquent seeking fire with an angel match cracking humility,
I'm a typhoon buffoon with Hanna-Babara tendencies,
**** with me and get a lethal dose of dynamite and Trojan Horse remedies,
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
B Bitter words are spilled across the page
I Inciting an equally bitter response
T Taking us to places we don't want to be
C Causing animosity amongst once close friends
H Hate and vitriol spreading like a foul pestilence
I Ignorance taking the place of understanding
N No more the poetic repartee of friends
G Gone now are the beautiful days
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 6:43 AM UTC
Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But **** I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
Noun, verb, adjective
Pronoun, proper noun
Determiner, exclamation
Interjection
It can do it all
Tastes like vitriol
High on the anger
(or high on the pleasure)
Sharp as a broken stone
Fits the bill on any occasion
Censored, painted over, blotted out
Doesn't matter to me
I love the word ****
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 12:08 PM UTC
We live in different belief worlds
But thankfully they intersect
Gravity takes us one way but
With thoughts we reconnect
What I mean might seem a
Mean meme, in retrospect
I don’t like who you like;
I mean no disrespect
But his ***** vitriol makes
Our country wrecked
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
Try as I might
To ignore the insufferable
Clamorous racking my brain
All too audible
Are these despicable
Sickening shrill
Voices wicked, malicious,
Insipid kids still
Instigating and baiting
Me closer to spill
My contempt vitriol
Seething passion to ****
Every little last filth-frothing
Mouth to feed dead
Bottom-fed in this
Stress-induce cesspool are bred
In an **** of virulent,
Ignorant stench
Still entrenching my senses
In sieges of tension
And drenching my clenching jaws
In reprehension
Spat out in the face
Of this whole human race
But mostly just this
Poor excuse for its waste
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 6:10 AM UTC
They cry turmoil thru my web-pages,
pages on pages of Tribunes and Suns and Times
and Quarterly
"Free Burma!"
it's all turkey and pig-latin to me,
just "dunno!" like a dunce-capped miscreant,
inept of their vitriol
as i was not so great at geography
i got by before junior high.
Where-the-tarnished-nation is it?
"Free Burma!"
Notice the elephant in the room
like a whale named *****
attempting to escape
brothers of all of ours
engulfed in war
some ocean somewhere someone is dying;
notice that elephant in our laptops
ivory and blue tooth and iphones
telling me, showing us
to care
i do / want to
we should and we must
yes
"Free Burma!"
will i need to donate a dollar,
two, three? will i receive
a correspondence
of a child i am saving
a face of a country
i'm ignorant to...
will it's big sad puppy eyes be
commercialized?
i am no less as educated for not
following the strife of thousands
my own is as heavy here as an orca's leap
"Free Burma!"
what cage, bear or mouse trap
have they gotten themselves
and ourselves into?
if it's anything like Yayo or Martha
business
i have a better "good thing" to do
but if it is
like famines in Africa,
Mendelson, or Tibetan Monks
on strike with kung-fu skills
i will join U2,
(and if she's aware) with Oprah power
activate!
(fist to fist)
"i will be a well of spring-water!"
and she a holy cow, a worshipped saint
"Free Burma!!"
free water
free of fear
free everyone, i pray,
under this sky
wipe away all tears
free you of your worries
free of all chains
free of mines
free of lies and borderlines.
Free to be
together
free to live and choose to see
A planet a place
A peace
"Free Burma!"
Freedom
as one
community.
For you, for me.
Home.
Free...
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Hello world
You may not recognize me
though now I finally recognize myself
I made a difficult choice
freedom over familiarity
I ran to a new beginning
Shedding all those who attempted to control
through lies and vitriol
I have found my voice
I will use my voice
to be a truth teller,
a mirror,
a fierce catalyst for wellness
I have found my voice,
so I sing out
with rebellious joy
Hello world
Hello
© 2025 SincerelyJoanWrites. All rights reserved.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 4:16 AM UTC
I wanted so much to like you;
I had heard so much about you.
Your show sounded like fun
Sadly, too soon I had begun
To listen between the lines
To know you, see who you are
To know behind the shallow mask
To see the ugly stained star.
I forgive myself for a bit of it
Because I know that it was
The method you always use.
I would later guess the cause.
Perhaps myself and others
The countless clueless mass
Mistook the rich and famous
As people with any real class.
I had to see the gaudy penthouse
With gold used instead of chrome.
I needed to see the fake opulence
That you chose to be your home.
I saw you hobnob with famous
And calling them your friends
Soon I would be let to see
The photo was where it ends.
So, I packed away any care for you
And chalked it up to my youth.
Little did I know right then
I only guessed at half the truth.
Because you put your skanky ****
Into the presidential race
And this latest **** of your ego
Means I never stop seeing your face.
Running for the highest office
The leader of the free world
Sure seems to have given
Your screwy hair a different twirl.
Suddenly you dragged out speeches
Of Hiter, Mussolini and Stalin.
You shouted the policies of the KKK
And thew your vitriol all in.
Since too many fools in America
Started chanting Trump, Trump
You seem to want to turn DC
Into something like the town dump.
As for me, I have trouble sleeping
Worried your fans might be letting
And idiot in charge of the nukes
So he can bring on Armageddon.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
I covet the hideous cult of fame. Spending my days in despondent cafés manically scribbling passionate love letters to recognition.
I'm not in love I'm insane.
Suffering from self-diagnosed misunderstood artist syndrome. My heart cries silent. I am a shadow in the distance. Warped, distorted and dark I scream alone; never to be touched.
I am a poser, a fame ****** and a hero worshiper. My vitriol view on the world hinders me. Constantly on the verge of crying in public. Staring at train tracks, they invite me away. Looking more comfortable then a bed.
I try to live in the now but the future petrifies me. I can't escape my own mind.
Y culture, My culture, Counter culture, **** culture, Love culture, Hate culture, Phonies.
I can’t see past the haze of disappointment I have designed myself. I smoke **** because it relaxes me, makes me feel like what I assume normality feels like. I drink because it makes me feel like how I assume those happy people feel. I take heroine because it makes me feel euphoric and takes me close enough to death that I want to live another day.
A brutal fear beats my anaemic mind. A peculiar fear grips my inner-self and I can’t bear to open my eyes and see that I had survived the night. I become saddened by the thought that I might also survive the day, living to see what I will be tomorrow.
Happy in the madness. Longing for that sick feeling. In love with the sadness. Searching in the dark recesses of the mind for inspiration. I can’t see past my fate, it’s too dark. I sit and source inspiration through the emotions and physical fits of ************ Self-abuse. Clawing for red gold in the catacombs that meander through my pale arms.
Beat myself out of sight beat me out of sight beat me beat me till I float. Beat me beat me till I float.
I am a poser, a fame ****** and a hero worshiper. My vitriol view on the world hinders me. Constantly on the verge of crying in public. Staring at train tracks, they invite me away. Looking more comfortable than a bed.
Relapse is fine by me. I want this. I want this. I want this. I want this. Not a tortured artist just tortured. Not a tortured soul just a cracked shell. In the name of art but in the corner of sickness.
Beat myself out of sight beat me out of sight beat me beat me till I float. Beat me beat me till I float.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Time is my lover; my companion.
She has revealed to me the sacred secrets of the world.
Captivated by her beauty and insight I have become fascinated by her existence.
I came to realize long ago, in the eons of my metamorphosis that she is the only one I can trust…
I take solace in this.
One cannot be led astray with love and time.
The blossoms and lilies are blooming amongst the tightly packed soil of the terrene.
I am efflorescing as well… Time has revealed this to me.
My heart is a celestial body amongst celestial bodies, illuminating the darkness and chaos ravaging the Earth.
I am a luminescent ruby shining red hot with passion; I have a fervor that shall not be diminished by the vitriol of a single malefactor.
I am united in spirit and soul with The One whom has redeemed me from sin and death.
My light is my hope; I have power when I am shining as brightly as the Sun.
Epiphanies are ever present in this vicissitude of my life.
I prayerfully await more growth beckoning me from just over the horizon.
The Sun has beseeched me to sanctify His name through melodious song.
I become less and less of a vestige as each sunset approaches.
My spirit is my cocoon.
I shall pray for more efflorescence as the Great Day approaches.
My soul is flowering forth with ebullience and a deep tranquility that no one can take away from me.
I shall rest my faith in my cognizance of the might I possess.
Today is my rebirth and the Phoenix has bestowed upon me its benediction.
To have newfound life breathed into your nostrils; words cannot express the jubilation, the ecstasy that has arisen in my soul as a result of this.
I have been fortified and from this day forth, I shall no longer relinquish my right to joy and prosperity.
May the Lord of Blissful Joy awaken in you also, the cognizance of the might you possess.
-Amen-
By, Iridescently Efflorescent
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
How I hate to be a dick havering ire and vitriol
But with great bombast I must barbily insist
That you stop that ****
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:50 AM UTC
Poets make lousy friends because eventually they’ll skewer you with their poison pen; their insulting writ of relentless invective and opprobrious apoplectic venom. The naked foist of un-allayed aggression as art-form whereby the vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife and digs in like a dagger. The very nature of chumminess turns adversarial. Like acid in the eyes the sneering contemptible retch could cobble out words with a disgustingly exquisite though execrable precision. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence so committed to unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face, a shocking starkness of incivility justified by a requisite expedience hastened by the anxious need to blow one off forthwith. He was a veritable torrent of abject invectives.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Do these lovely grounds permit me
Of my present presence, like thistle
Be unwanted and undaunted
Taken greatly in arbored orchard
May my refuge grow demure
Taken often by lapping banks
May my breath grow slow and slight
By those tentacline roots
Those heightened and lengthy articles
May that shade and slanted sallow
Blanket lightly my discomfort
Ne’er is there such wondrous sedation
Then this lilting life, by waterside
And no bile ink nor vitriol
May ever dissipate this lovely truth
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 10:58 AM UTC