"volitions" poems
sitting in his invented prison
where misgivings are never forgiven
restricted to only visits from visions
in his dimension of endless renditions
condemned to exist within mental schism
with his stiffest self sentence given
never forgetting misdeeds and decisions
only existing to revisit volitions
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
We have time on our youth,
inches on our throat.
We have cleaned for years.
We swell to cry,
this does not fix us.
Flatter our unsoiled volitions!
Gorge our empty stomachs—
Martinet, our Big Brother!
We have cleaned for years.
“Clean til I say—
Satisfied.”
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
We have time on our youth,
inches on our throat.
We have cleaned for years.
We swell to cry,
this does not fix us.
Flatter our unsoiled volitions!
Gorge our empty stomachs—
Martinet, our Big Brother!
We have cleaned for years.
“Clean til I say—
Satisfied.”
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
We are all performing for each other, sneaking furtive looks at our Facebook while big brother watches every move, so we try to be smooth but we’re mostly fooling ourselves, pooling our wealth into the pockets of the few who can exploit our intuitions and inhibitions, guiding our volitions into the abyss, artificial intelligence manipulating with elegance, effortlessly evading our defenses, we’re stuck in psychological trenches down so deep and so dark we keep the lights on with the spark of imagining our face up on the screen, fame or infamy we’ll take whichever if we can live forever, so the birds of a feather flock together, tethering into groups of similarity, reflecting and retweeting to infinity, infinite me, define me and refine me through the digital lens, cleanse me of my subpar self, replace me with an avatar elf, help me be the best and arrest the theft of my soul, life’s terrible toll, free me from reality by letting the real me, the me I want to be, finally be seen. But this method is madness, a pathway to sadness and regret, hours stolen by scrolling through feeds, reality filtered and enhanced, living for likes and shares from people who may not even care, who are just staring at screens, afraid to go outside, to be alive, because reality is out of their control, but maybe unpredictability can set you free, anonymity unraveling the blindfold we hold over our eyes, deflating the ego that social media’s creating, when you look outside and see how big the world can really be, humility sets you free, feeling small in the best way, resting in each day as a part of the whole, no longer constructing a fake soul for a digital audience to see, instead you can finally be. Just be.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
staring into the warm void this evening
i take my place within jarring volitions.
thought is volatile. a mason strikes
metal, revealing its malleability.
there is treason in thought of geography;
i will shatter the mooring and find myself
something the fluting wind is the muse
and echoing quiet, a ripple from stone-skip.
the next place to go is the beginning
stemming from a concatenation of ruins.
the thinning visage of masses crossing
the streets wary of collisions
is something realer than the wounded glaze
of asphalt and the mirage that goes along
tiptoeing like a danseuse through shards
of incandescent figures. fumes. sprawls.
untouched virgins. tacit stones. doves
perching on powerlines nestled like youth
suckling mothers. fathers facing telegraphs
and the sure machine of dearth.
stasis of peregrinations. peripatetic
crush of imminent homes.
this is to assuage its call, from nowhere
arrives the next train to Kamuning,
disappearing in a plethora of arms
sequined by sweat under the swelter of planets
unfurling a bent axis of tragedies. we are
fraternized to tracks, unyielding distances,
makeshift solaces serial, benign, tenured.
belonging. unbelonging.
our destination: an impending sojourn,
the verdigris taking form.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
Pines, loyal pines, endless pine sentinels
In this forest with loneliness and me.
Giving refuge to my thoughts, pains, of growth
Reminding of the strength which lies within
Wondering if the sentinels, in their
Glory, question the ascension toward sky.
Blessed are the flourishers growing without
query. They shall be conquerers of life.
In the station of pines, strength beseeches
The weary. Their convalescent I’ll be.
A world without the wilderness invites
Tempests to rage, forgetting the nature
Lying cast away. Allowing the known
To dictate volitions of hearts’ desire
Waiting for seasons’ return to the pines.
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 9:14 AM UTC
Introductions leading to seductions
Lustful liasions never follow instructions
Obstructions of justice with a hearts abduction
Volitions conditions and mass productions
Eventually turn into fables of reconstruction
Yearning to feel the bodies conduction
Outcomes steming from deduction
Until the end result is reproduction
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC