"writs" poems
Where has your soul gone to?
Why do your writs smell of blood?
Why are you numb to feeling?
Soulless
Bleeding
Numb
Society.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
~**My portrait was painted by Jackson *******
<|>
“***there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and perception is only your truth.
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum,
but signed by me as first passenger***”
<|>
when did I write these words?
can’t recall, though undated,
they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t,
I should have…
for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude,
a resident in my file of
“someday writs, awaiting,”
when the itch demands you will
essay
**the admixture of words and swords
that will cut a newborn corded reciprocity of thee and me,
an unbound bind that ties and frees us
from and by our shared senses…**
today, an inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a
fulsome scratching
<|>
the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips,
each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common
uncommonality,
which is as it should be,
**for if we are each created in His image,
how glorious is the diversity of our deities,
each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau
of a small planet, insignificant but
uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,**
human
<|>
the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders,
a single word drops,
of plaint, paint, blood,
a seconds blush blurred
that is the building blocks of imagery
I state is mine,
but now realizations swiftly fertilize,
**the portrait is not of me,
but of me blended into thee,
and this poem,
is our composition**
that hangs in each of our primary
museum,
newly re-titled,
A Passenger, Realized
Sep 14, 2023
Sep 14, 2023 at 7:10 AM UTC
grade my writings in magenta,
no red arrogance for me teach,
blue note jazz margin comments,
unacceptable marginalizing pithy succinct notes,
always cute, hard hitting,
even in day to day black or Bic blue,
refused!
give me ochre, amethyst,
give me the colors of a new born morn,
give me words of encouragement
next to that nicely writ,
without a self-serving
high faluting exclamation point,
astride my D, my F,
a polite professorial funk you
in azure gold
leave me,
write me in colors of hope,
even claptrap deserves
a nice funeral
because gentle teach,
this thought I preach,
what color would you like me
to grade your students in,
your writs,
when next I look
twenty years from now?
will you not leave
me,
be,
in
the color of better days
enthused?
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
Roses are red
Violets are blue
But now so am I
And it's all cause of you
Now instead of the roses
My writs are blood red
And the violets have stained
The side of my head
You hug me and cry
And I say it's okay
But you always come back
With your violent bouquet
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste
born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes
blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction
the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of
****
but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't
you
.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
It's so easy
To slice through those
Writs of yours;
It's so easy
To make an excuse
Not to eat;
It's so easy
To smoke yourself
To death;
It's so easy
To open your mouth
And purge your problems away;
But it's so hard
To open your mouth
And speak
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Deep Drops Falling From The Sky
Such Amazing Diamonds Shining Bright
From A Dark Cloud Writs Goodbye
Opens A Crack In The Dark To See Light
Goes Far Beyond Life And Thousand Of Lies
The Light Collids With Darkness In Such A Fight
The Battle Begins, Then The Battle Cries
There Is No Line Between The Wrong And Right
It's A Promise I Gave You Till I Die
I'll Keep It Till My Heart Sees The Darkest Night
Till I Stop Asking The Same Question -Why?-
Till The Last Breath To Lose My Might
To Meet Your Face With My Closed Eyes
When My Spirit Holds My Body Tight
But He Hears The Words He Should Fly
Losing Weight, To Look Around From Hight
Babe The Whole Life With You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost It For Another One To See Your Eyes
Babe The Whole Life Before You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost My Soul When You Killed Me With Your Knife
The First Part Of The Picture From Your Humour
Babe, I'm Bleeding So Hard, And I Will Be Gone Sooner
Acting Out Fights Every Second With Your Lover
The Second Part Of The Picture, Is A Mockery
A Pause For The Relation To Cheat With An Uber
Sorry Words Won't Heal, And This Situation Is Over
But Make Sure After Death Everything Will Be Smoother
Your Angel Face Was The Best Cover For A ******
But I Will Always Love You On This World Or Another
Even If I Was Still In The Womb Of My Mother
No Choice For Me If The Heart Choosed His Slaughter
You Are Just Like A Drug, And I'm The Consumer
Babe The Whole Life With You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost It For Another One To See Your Eyes
Babe The Whole Life Before You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost My Soul When You Killed Me With Your Knife
Such A Dark Sky Covers The World Hard To Hit
The Storm Blows The Air For The 1st Time To Speak
While The Thunder Is Just Another Element To Fit
Falling In Hell, On My Eyes All Gone Bleak
Stone Cold Heart As Harsh Ice While Fire Lit
To Dissolve In Seven Days To Make The Week
There Is No Chance To Fight Or Try To Resist
It's Just A Poison, Was Made Well To Be My Drink
Babe The Whole Life With You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost It For Another One To See Your Eyes
Babe The Whole Life Before You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost My Soul When You Killed Me With Your Knife
Author/ Aladdin Aures HAMDI
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life
times are tough
more than ever;
bills come at the speed of bullets
taxes gather like summer flies
and debts ricochet against our walls;
the banks want more and more
but there's just air in our pockets
hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life
the jobs dry up and
the dollars dwindle into cents;
permanent becomes temp
and temp becomes non-existent;
full-time goes into part-time
and part-time into casual
and casual into zilch
hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life
nature conspires with the economy,
sweetheart:
she sends rains and fire and landslides;
she claws sands off the beaches and
all we have left are
government ******** and *******
who care a hoot about our fish and chips
hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life
time's not on our side either, sweetheart;
mind you, with mighty puffed cheeks
he blows H1N1 flu round the globe
and so sends people and customers away
and those who remain turn cheap and nasty
and all these pigs want are discounts and freebies
hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life
the collection agencies are knocking, dear -
it sounds much like the knock of death
in Beethoven's ninth;
the mortgage barbarians are on their horses
and they send writs and auction threats
and re-possessions
hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life
O hang on, sweetheart,
hang on tight:
many will fall, many will bleed
but those who hang on tight
and those who can love
those who can dream together
they will ride the nights out into clear day
hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
(Dedicated to Stephen E Yocum)
You who have spent time on this planet,
That you can count your annual growth rings,
By just employing a combination of
Fingers, toes, eyes and nose,
Stop and think, after reading on.
Forty years on, what are the words, the titles,
The honorifics that you would like to see
Next to your name?
There is a yeoman Yocum in our midst,
Who has collected a few adjectives,
The sum total if additive,
Is a resume most complete,
One you should envy!
Able Friend,
Lover of Dogs and Humans,
Gentleman Farmer, Decent Photographer,
Spinner of tall tales, woven for his
Grandchildren.
A writer, a poet,
He says "a would be,"
I say, one who attempts,
Puts his name on writs public,
Is no would-be!
Who here would dare disagree?
More than all this, unlike so many,
Grateful for everyday of life,
Even those ****** full of strife,
And who served, a grunt,
One of the proud, the few.
I salute, you, and call out,
Attention Poets, Marine On Deck!
But no stuffed shirt ,
A man of soil and earth,
Who can laugh at himself, and write,
*"My driving experience feel greater,
Would be to speed down the road,
Behind the wheel of my little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course,
Feel the wind in my hair."*
It is easy to be some things.
It is hard to be many things,
But it is the hardest, and the best,
When you look back,
And laugh out loud, admit,
The funniest thing you know,
The one that keeps you sane,
The one-thing, hardest, and the best,
Is to laugh at yourself.
So stand attention,
Go to the mirror,
Tho you might not like what you see,
If you focus, and really look tight, squint,
Do not be surprised,
If, in a few minutes,
You burst out laughing,
Especially if you do it in your
Birthday suit!
Maintain this perspective,
Forward and retroactive,
And then perhaps,
You will be able to write
These words...like he did!
*Where upon, sheer elated emotions,
Of this my journey of self discovery,
Began to sink in and I started to cry.
There are times is one's life,
when lessons are taught,
When almost no words
need to be spoken.
And the best teacher's are
our own Brain and Heart,
Comprehending, embracing
Life's many shared Lessons.*
Marine Slocum, Stand at Attention!
There are Poets saluting you.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
No tengo - Spanish for don't have
<•>
*woke up bushy and mushy,
"Siri, get my muse on the line,"
wise *** asked which one,
guess she was feeling feisty
as well as girl-gorgeous,
poem perfect on a July 2 Sunday
fake growled and she said
"alright, alright, just a sec..."
"0 Muse, it's me,
it's not even seven am,
got the urge, ready to cruise,
pick me one of my Natman outfit de-skyizes and
let us write many jive poems
let us write till the sunsets texts us
sire, dude,
I'm
just above the horizon,
poems no mas,
unless you will write by
the fire of the maister's grill"
My Muse,
strangely morose, denies replies,
"sorry sire, (she's nice English)
all of the available words
have been purchased until
July twenty tooth"
What, I screamed, threatened and challenged,
must be one of those rude dude tech billionaires,
who think limitless is just another word for more please!
Siri
"get me god on the line so I can maccabee end,
this poetic oppression"
***** an old friend,
an A list star of many prior writs,
would surely insist that a
special rabbinical dispensation,
could be found to squeeze nattyman me,
a few thousand or so
God (looking straight at him, makes him crazy)
"so many things I do not have such as,
your prolificacy,
making me jealous that all your poets
rain down in greater quantities
than I can manufacture clear crystallinely
but now is the hour of your power,
the minute of my need,
give me some words please"
the disembodied voice's disemboweled me
"sorry son,
gotta run,
if it is words you want,
suggest get an in with
wordvango and betterdays,
me, no tengo!
their profligacy,
poems by the hour
have drained the list,
and had I not put a stop to it,
they would have taken them all
till Christmas!"
*So made me some future reservations,
selling them likes suns, 3 for a dollar,
which is even cheaper, (Eliot!)
no ifs and ands about (it)
come see the maister natser,
my words are made of obsidian
and specialty Valyrian steel,
and nobody eats my words
they just-wink at them,
then lift some, a nice steal
cause I never read a poem
undeserving
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
I heard someone whisper "he's such an arrogant ***** as I entered.
Those crooked sons of ******* don't have any idea,
I'm the kind you hardly ever come across except in winters,
when all the street rats are begging for heat.
I command attention at the head of the table,
I am the head of the table,
and sever the head to **** the municipal body.
The wigs and robes and gavels I accessorize command it too.
When I sign things I do it haughtily,
I carefully etch each and every ********* letter onto writs of demand.
I stand!
A hush lingers,
I catch the eyes of Walter Weiss, he lies with every breath
and did you know he is unfaithful to his wife? I heard.
the shudders are shut, my druthers. Oh, Walter!
notarize my forms of annexation, please.
and take down this:
To whom it may concern:
You have 7 days to remove yourself from the premises
as you are aware of the edict that preexists
and preempts your residence
and your squalor misrepresents
your laziness.
Signed: The holding powers, in eminence.
Oh Walter Weiss, address it to yourself!
I pride myself on tact.
And package with the writ this evidence form
sent to my office following a secret examination
conducted by the Department of Residential Safety and Heath.
Do not bother me with demoralizations, Walter!
Due to discourse with the Act of Discontinuation,
(which of course is subject to broad generalizations)
the lien sector of the Savings and Loan Association
have concluded you are found in violation of, through reasoning by generalization,
failing to pay duties on your mortgage issued by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation.
Oh, Walter, how distressing!
Don't falter, acquiescing
is always the way.
Just never, ever forget to pay.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 4:43 PM UTC
Meze
*Meze or mezze /ˈmɛzeɪ/ is a selection of small dishes served in the Middle East and the Balkans as breakfast, lunch or even dinner.
-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's a meze day,
Many small poems arrayed,
A tasting menu,
Hummus and babaganoush,
Small observations,
Pita dipping,
Long writs tabled,
Unless dragged out from the wine cellar,
For another meal,
Another mood.
They'll keep,
or not.
The bay and beach have been traded in,
For Western Mass. mountains,
The highland region,
The Berkshires, the Green and the Taconic Mountains,
Formed over half a billion years ago
When Africa collided
with North America.
(Just for a weekend, a traitor, I'm not.)
*Different insects checking me out,
Crash landing in my chest hair jungle
To get a taste of a Long Island salt air,
Fresh blood and poetry from a foreign tongue.
Mount Greylock asks me what I got to say.
I said I got grey locks older than you, friend.
I am a billion years old, son of the copulation
Tween the Sun and and a passing comet,
The Atlantic,
My amniotic fluid birthstone unevaporated..
Greylock sniffs, mumbles,
just another New Yorker.
*The clouds different, thick slabs, bank-heads keeping
My sun-father from showing his true colors,
My skin seeks his restorative powers,
Burn the strain, the stress, the black circles from
Within and without, but this is a partly cloudy day.
Sooner than me, the leaves will be red and gold,
The season of long sunnier days forgotten,
The trees that
Fill the panorama,
Point their soon-to-be
Denuded branch fingers at me
Accusingly,
L'etranger,
You brought winter's chill,
A lie but perhaps not,
For they are sensing the
Inhabiting cold in me.
A strange day, every asking, passing thought
Thrown back in my face,
And stewed, stir fried up
All in vain attempts to keep warmer
Just a little bit
Longer.*
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
The young poetess^ writes:
*Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.
Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!*
The old hoary replies:
Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.
We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.
Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!
Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!
Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.
You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.
We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.
You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!
We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.
Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!
Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
How many days left in my body?
How many poems left in my body?
One and the same, one and the sane.
My body is my poems.
You cannot distinguish me
in any other way.
eye-scans, fingerprints, belly buttons,
areolae.
all possess, all differentiate, none suffice,
I say it thrice, still you do not understand,
none not a marker singular,
they are not me,
nor are they you.
so if you read but one of my poems,
my body,
you do not know.
but when I find you perusing, exhuming,
the-ones-that-went-before
then you will, can know as well
as I know myself.
each poem a pore,
each pore a poem.
**How many days left in my body?
How many poems left in my body?
one and the same, one and the sane.
my body, my poems.**
my body is not episodic.
turn on the tv, no imagination leaps needed,
but each and every contingent on the prior,
each poem a stepping stone to the in side,
insight to the story of the body.
more story than poems,
I began in the beginning,
believe me there are thousands
of writs that lie about, lay about,
that sunshine has n'ere exposed.
but enough survived
enough shared, enough spent,
You have never seen my face,
what matters that,
when you have seen my poems,
my body, more than windows into,
they are the very pores of me.
Jan. 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
Toss these brackened antlers
to a Babylon of early crows
where slim repels of cirrus
lace the marches of Orion.
I wore you as an amulet
hard pressed upon my pestle arm
as charms of montane lunar drift
rebelled about your peacock gaze.
There is balsam on the Eastern run
in piquant writs of clementine ,
where jubilees of Persian mote
reveille in the waiting still.
As hieroglyphs of scrying palm
lay wraith about the cindered pane
you harried in ancestral bell..
The name of some forgotten God.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
'My body normally wouldn't shiver that way,
it is because your fingers touched me.
You gave me glitters and tunes I never experienced.
I felt like waves of water crushing into land.
We would travel to Paris and Rome and Prague.
With glistening eyes you walked and danced around my presence.
That voice of yours sounded like music and felt like poems.
I was surrounded with lies, but I didn't care.
Lies you want to hear, said the magazines lying on my lap.
Take me to the promised cities. Take me there in your arms.
I kissed that muscular neck hundred times,
but you wiped those kissed away.
I sprayed my writs, neck and ******* with Chanel.
Hoping you would touch me like that again.
But you didn't.
You left me there standing, watching thin air turning blue.
I always felt so beautiful around you.
Never leaving you was the first lie you told.
And the best.
There was a moment that I really believed in it.
Believed in you.'
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
A hole in the wall.
She wraps my fists.
No wonder, I fell for a girl with bandaged writs.
She tucks me in bed with her healing kiss.
She must get tired of living like this.
When daylight breaks, she wakes me up.
And pours fresh coffee in my favorite cup.
She's cleaned the blood from the bathroom stall.
But what will she do about the hole in the wall.
She drives me to anger management.
Where I'll tell them everything was an accident.
She's back again at Ten o'clock
without her car, holds my hand for the walk.
Apparently, I didn't want to talk.
She may have fixed the hole in the wall.
But what will she do with her broken jaw.
She looks around to see who saw.
It's just us
and no forgiveness left for her to withdraw.
She tucks me in bed with her sympathetic kiss.
She's finally done living like this.
© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
I keep having this recurring dream
where you're there
and I'm there
and we're hiding beneath the sheets
because that's the only place
the light can't find us.
You're brushing up against my face
and I can feel your chest contract
with mine.
I look at you
and I know it will be the last
but I just hold you
And your heart beats against my throat
and your breath expels along my skin
You're alive
and I can feel you
and you can feel me too.
I look into your eyes
and I see the ocean
I'm on the beach
and she's walking behind me
humming sweet songs of adolescent love
she's happy.
I dive into the waves
but this time it's different
this time I'm drowning.
I'm drowning and she's not there
I clench my fists and count to ten
but I'm still drowning.
I call for you but you never come
I'm in church
nine years old
and the pastor swears I am pure
he swears we will be forgiven
and I turn to mommy
ask if Jesus will forgive daddy
for the lipstick on his collar
but she doesn't reply.
She's in the bath late at night
she's crying softly
dropping her cigarette in the tub
I try to make her smile
but she's still crying
*Daddy left her for a *****
and she's still crying.
It's you again
This time you're holding my hand
and we're walking, just walking
you plant a kiss upon my forehead
and we keep walking.
But somewhere in this version of my terror
I'm still drowning
and you're screaming from the surface
that I deserve it
That I finally know
what it feels like to die
and you're not going to save me.
I wake up
in a place that my body knows as hell
and your gazing at my corpse
I'm chained against a wall.
You're crying
you're begging for my help
but I can't
I tug against the steal
hanging like anchors
from my wrists
but I can't move
You're bleeding out
across the floor again
calling my name
but I can't save you
I awoke to a symphony
that reminds me
in every filthy way
that I have killed you
I am reminded of my brother
trapped in an unforgiving youth
playing spin the bottle
but here
he is alone
kissing the wounded parts of himself
in hopes that they will heal
I am reminded of my mother
and how she still thinks
I don't notice the empty pill bottles
in the bathroom
and she still can't seem to stand straight
without daddy by her side
I am reminded of my friend
and how she gave the broken parts
of herself
to a boy who didn't give
a ****
a boy who kissed all the girls
that tasted of *****
and had no scars along their writs
I am reminded that people leave
in every conscious minute
of every hour
ever lived
people leave
people leave
p e o p l e l e a v e.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
one more for Pradip...
"Poems...are never short or long, they're only more. Thanks Nat for ever filling the less."
firing up the poem kiln,
this intriguing provocation
insistent of deserved consideration,
after all,
it is thy stories that these days inspire,
my own stories are relentless
grey, old, cold, and to my eyes,
coded repetitious...
neither a chaster or a chastiser,
(You could look it up!)
confessing readily to sinning against humanity
by ecrivezing poems of length considerable,
the Mexicano from Indiano
releases a shotgun blast
to all those whose attention spans last,
to ten words or a single stanza...no more...
but this not the matter of import,
no, no, it is the
more and the less
that makes poetry the best,
no matter the length or the heft...
in each of us
there is a more and a less,
in cycles individual that are not bound to
tides, weather, or any effect natural,
but product of our own amber waves
of chemical imbalances and mental auras...
all my days have I rode waves of
well hid hills of mania *** depression,
contented moments surrounded and cosseted
by wails of worry, sorrel colored sorrows,
making the scientists amazed at the correlation
of the macro and the mini,
the precision of my indecision...
in sixty seconds, in sixty days, in sixty years,
have I battered and battled the disequilibrium
of more and less,
disallowing a pilloried intervention,
will likely do so until
that day when my pen
has bled its last...
this theme haunts,
for but a day ago,
a bus poem was blurted out,
that concluded thusly:
***to survive,
to justify,
to mediate
between these un-counterbalanced weights,
I write poetry***
here I am stunned that Pradip
with but a handful of seeds,
exactly isolates the genetic implanted notion
that I struggle to define,
knowing only that my poetry fills my less,
when the all the rest is just
another fine mess
we fill the less with our wit,
we top off our souls with writs,
we are more for having scribed,
one read or ten thousand,
it mater matters knot!
look upon the pages endlessly bearing
the ephemeral heavy-handed weight full of well crafted words,
the good, the plenty,
the sad, the sorry,
the trite and cranky,
those misted musty,
the light and the careful,
the bad and merely awful,
even the drip of torrential love stories gone dry
what matters not
any of this over sighted analytics,
each and all and everyone
a success,
for each poem makes someone's less lessened,
and someone's more, more,
and by this
ever filling the less...
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
I was blinded by the light, now I go on unseeing the future...letting go of the past...minding the present! Head held never to high unloving the lows. Stuck right in the middle of unfocused brain at last breathe...Does it ever get any easier, or does it just remain stuck in the rough like diamonds? Unknown realities slip through the cracks of the unwise. Dusky winds of time grabbing a hold of me. Challenge what was once in front of you, now it is long gone and far out of arms length. Grasp onto to what you've lost only to lose it once more. Put a hold on the unimportant issues, rummage through the importance of everyday life. Remain in the ever changing light-force we call Earth toned times. Collide head first into nothing, plummet the summit, and ride the lightning on the burning magic carpet entitled for its treacherous ways of life. Open up your closed mind and settle the big score, lock away the past, Step within the future's light...only to learn of who we really are, where we will be, how will we ever get there? Judge me not for my senses have seen unsettling ways. Close your eyes for one last glance of what beauty is defined as. Undefining the possibilities, of challenging blows to the head. Unconscious paralysis measuring the measurements of sand in this cracked hour glass. Pour it away only to capture the moments of memoirs writs.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
Your caress has turned to mold,
to keep me good you said:
"someday, if only.."
this way,
I vivisect,
my dead soul with your
increased failed words
while I shelter
on this avenue that you walked on,
once with hopes for your return
and....going going gone.
The bad habit of my fantasies
a stillborn hunger
so massively
I wish for you
to do me violently,
in the back of your car
like a deity,
like that cigarette that never leaves your mouth
Inhale me deeply
blow the smoke out
and let me spread
from your lungs into the hole in your heart.
Drive me far - I won't object,
lick at my scars as to infect and
indulge yourself with me,
tangle in the kiss
that eyes grace
upon naked skin
dazzled by delicate writs.
As your most needed need
force me to please.
And I will cry
when the rain falls,
I do it once more for you
as if taught
to obey teardrops,
so pure
I lay them in front of you to hold
buttons to be pushed, no,
tear them apart
won't you?
-11
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
the first cut is always the deepest
So I've heard them say
I would have never thought that one day I'd end up here
I would have never thought of my self like this
Struggling not to take a razor to my skin
And tear it apart
Sitting there watching the pretty skin
Disappear into scars and a deathly red fluid
I know one day I will go too far
But I'm so far gone I won't care
The multiple laserations on my writs are painful
But not as painful as what you did to me
But with those few words to tore me down
And took me back to this place
This place I refere to as home
Because I was only gone for a short while
This thing they call addiction is powerful
So powerful I can't stop anymore
I'm sorry
But I'm gone now
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Glued to the T.V.
When you explore the mouth of a tiger and don’t find a genie,
But meet the teeth of a beast who is grinning out feed me.
Is this the world my teachers praised and reminded me of?
**** no wonder I’m glued to the T.V.
Drug called control and getting off it isn't easy.
When addicted to it you become a victim to it, insuring a stormy life
And words aren't making it breezy.
**** no wonder I’m glued to the TV.
Rather not hear the complaints of feminists,
Or pay attention to images of slit writs that only provoke me to reminisce
About some stupid **** that didn't apply to me but I wished it did, until it really did.
No tears shed, whenever I’m glued to the TV.
Religious fear implemented by the hypocritical, demented spirits who will spit at you
And write the lamented.
Not the desired destination for eternal resting, but hell in a daydream is so interesting.
Anybody who walks on holier ground would have stood and questioned
But I’d rather be Constantine than a teen that complains constantly.
**** no wonder I’m glued to the TV.
It should be against the law to escape into another’s mind,
Or have your dreams influenced by another’s.
“Who Framed Roger Rabbit”, we’ll find out some other rhyme,
But let’s put on Loki’s mask to and joke of each other’s crimes.
Inspired to do so,
Glued to the TV.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
Why are you an atheist?
How often I get asked this question...
Because I am alone in this world.
I am alone, and you have your God.
How is your God great, and is your God good,
When every time the news comes on,
I hear the latter?
People killing people in so called,
"Holy wars."
What's so holy about ******
About war?
About ****
Poverty?
Suicide?
So while you spend your Sundays staring
At the heart of an empty sky,
While you waste your last breath pleading for forgiveness,
I will sit here and be an innocent bystander
To the will of your God **** savior.
Such horrors your savior has put me through.
Why am I living in a place where people are judged
By the color of their skin?
A world where people slit there wrists and throats
Just to feel alive.
A world were daddy's **** their "little princess'"
And mommy is on the bathroom floor
A little too long this time.
If that is the world we live in,
I don't want to live there anymore.
So, take your comic books and your name tags
And pedal your beliefs somewhere they are needed.
I don't want them.
Your God doesn't know me.
He doesn't know what I can take.
And what about the people who couldn't take
What they were given?
With their broken backs
And your broken heart
And my broken mind.
Oh. But what if I have lost my mind?
Throw me in my padded room
With my bleeding writs
Tied behind my padded back.
Thanks so much for your God's help,
So much for knowing my breaking point.
It's too late I am lost forever and
The void in my heart is full of jellybeans,
And the void in my head is filled with my heart.
I, am tired.
Where is your god now?
Where were you when I needed you most? What about when I was face down on the ground?
I thought of you, it went up with the bottle
and went down with the pills.
Who stopped me from killing myself?
When the thoughts slowly left my head
And my heart ceased its song in my chest.
Where are you now as I sit in front of your children,
The corpse of a girl we all once knew,
And spin my stories?
Where are you now?
Where is your God?
I am God.
(a.m)
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC