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Cerebral Sensory Chaos [02 Jan 2005|09:53pm]

Infuriated by all the stimuli that
assaults my consciousness and overloads my
devastated by the artificial flower that
has a glorious scent,
pontificating all day with meager souls
pretentiously pouncing being to being
prostituting my spirit with no shame,
slash the vocal cords out my mother’s
happiness is for the foolish,
the dead fish which no longer exist,
do you exist? Justify your existence,
you don’t exist you deceive,
to all the tortured souls
suffer on more,
for to suffer is to be discontent,
and to be discontent is to not be content,
and to be content is to be the object
of my greatest disgust.
(Write )

Twilight of my suffering [02 Jan 2005|09:52pm]

Silence and solitude free me
from all which consumes conceal me,
the unbearable burden of noise,
torturously terrible,
infinitely wretched,
silence ALL!!!
Your very being nauseates me,
my will to nothingness is all I have,
the eternal suffering of the damned is all that brings me joy,
heal me with your touch and
teach me how to catch the dragon,
I want to learn your ways women,
teach me your games women,
you are my salvation, in your arms
I feel the warmth of my will to nothingness,
brain explode!
Escape yourself,
drink wine, boost thy “Id”, silence thyself!
(Write )

Poetry as the flower of life [02 Jan 2005|09:51pm]

When one cannot dance
one must learn to dance with words,
to communicate the incommunicable
to communicate the virus,
what nobler task then expressing this disease
with such artful grace and with such pleasant delivery,
all the worlds suffering on to thee who speak without style,
curse the man who burdens us
with wretched ephemeral babble,
live long those musical word smiths,
those delightful creature creators.
(Write )

livejournal poem 2 [30 Nov 2004|07:47pm]

[ mood | discontent ]

Death and Tea

Back before the dead had names
on stones or places reserved deep
below a recess of dampened earth,
back before, we traipsed through
overgrown graveyards like kites
buoying weightless on flossed strings--

I pull the memory of cold tea stagnant
in blue-rimmed cups out of my mind's pockets
like used kleenex, crumpled posies--and you,
sleeping like a tea kettle below the sheets
before you died like all things do

and we put you back in the ground.

(Write )

Just a Quickie [24 Nov 2004|09:33pm]

[ mood | anxious ]

I looked up and saw metal.
I looked down and saw metal.
I looked left,
Looked right,
Saw metal.

Something ain't kosher.
Something ain't right.

Why are we schlepping around our ancestors on our backs?
Pretending to schvitz like pigs in a slaughterhouse?
oh look,
right there
in the middle of slaughterhouse.
There it is.
There's laughter.

(Write )

livejournal poem 1 [23 Nov 2004|11:12pm]

[ mood | frustrated ]

completely unrevised bouts of freeverse:

Some other girl would push the sleeves
of a threadbare cardigan up her delicate
white arms, her trimmed bangs fringing
like scissored strips of paper and tell you

how many trees grew in her front yard back
when she was three, twirling sparklers past
collapsable lawnchairs grazing the lawn,
her father grilling pink strips of steak--
his apron strings trailing down the backside
of his wrinkled Levi's, humming the Notre
Dame fight song as his daughter goes by

but I am the girl who lets her sleeves drag
over the fingers, protectively, like gloves
or winter mittens and I do not tell you of
my past where I never knew anything of wands
or firecrackers, or dancing past smokey grills
that sizzle out and flail the scents of slow
cooked meat. My father rarely did the cooking,
and we lived in places where concrete overtook
grass and dirt, fire escapes came before trees--
and besides, I would not want you to love me
for these small details of my past, these precious
artifacts to hoarde and swap and contain in the
tumult of distance, the space between two.

(Write )

[15 Nov 2004|08:23am]

[ mood | artistic ]

Control of Her


As the rain starts to fall

She gathers her objects

That has kept her tied to Him.

Hear the door SLAM behind her

As she runs outside.

Kneeling down on her knees,

She looks up at the drunken sky

And screams

“Rain Wash Me,

Make Me Whole Again,

Flood Him OUT of MY Life,

Liquefy These Chains,

He Needed to Keep Me Here.

Cleanse Me Rain,

Set ME Free!!”

With a shovel in her hand

She digs a hole like her life depends on it.

She knows that her life may depend on this hole.

With a toss,

The sacred items He gave her

Go in the hole.

Drenched and Shivering

Soaked to the bone

She takes His picture,

And lays it on top

She wants Him to see her

When she buries His Control of her.

With one last goodbye—

Goodbye for good this time,

Fragile and meek she starts to shovel this dirt back in,

Covering the last piece of Him in her life.


She notices as she kneels,

The rain has stopped.

And this feeling overcomes her.

She knows that for the first time in years,

She no longer feels His chain around her neck.



(Write )

and our hero has resolved never to sigh over an uniterested broad again... [20 Oct 2000|05:13pm]

the streets will run red
the sky will be ever dark
hearts will shatter when
memories re-manifest,
and she will choke on my name.

(Write )

[29 Feb 2004|04:56pm]

One night my g/f was over my place and we were listening to music on the couch and cudeling and such...for a reason that i cant really say she cried i can tell you why she cried but i cant tell you what pulled the triger, she cried because she thinks she is not good looking which is very sad because its not true but we both fought the tears and made the most of the time we had left. Days later i felt poetic and the band "Thursday" helped me to put my feelings into words, so after listening to "Thursday" for 3 days or so non-stop i came up with this poem "Emotions Exposed…Now We Can See"

Emotions Exposed…Now We Can See

I approach like a killer
I silently move…leaving no trace behind.
The sun is drowning in the sea…
Where the dead bodies sings the lullabies,
While we departure to a different night.
As I make myself closer to a tragedy
That repeats in my dreams…
And we try to unwind the barbwire
Wrapped around our hearts.
She lets out tears
As the fist goes through the mirror
Splinters flying in the air
Cutting up opening wounds
She doesn’t seem able to fight it
But she doesn’t seem to know to realize how beautiful she looks
If I only could convert myself into a liquid
That she could inject herself with…to be her cure
That breaks down the pain
And show her what she can’t see
Can I be your ecstasy?
The rapture that you could capture.
But she doesn’t know how much it hurts
Too see the sad look on her face.
We screamed to this night
Our hopes are that we’ll make it out alive…
Walk backwards
Retrace your tears
The eye shadow drips down
I engage myself to the honesty of my words
For her to believe or throw it back
But I hope she’ll catch it back in mid air
She looks quite from where she is laying
Involve some oxygen in that silent gesture
We lay on two different hospital beds
Her eyes are closed, as she stays damaged
Mine are half opened, as I stay broken
I push all my strength into my lips
To whisper words that she has trouble inhaling
Tenderly choking me
And I bite my lower lip
To come up with better words
To describe my emotions
The waves in the ocean are dancing
To the beat of our hearts
As our breathing collide.
Its bitter in my mind
When her past gets caught in the present
I wish I were stronger so I can toss
These sharp images out of my mind…
Now I’m a few footsteps away…
This note written with dead words and dry ink
On skin that reminds me of suicide
That’s been cut off with razorblades
Drawn and now erased.
The knife screams goodbye
As I stab myself
Letting out blood
My inside exposed to the world
Now you can see
That my words where real
So please paint yourself
With a smile that you put on my face…
Our youth will speak and explain
What went down that night…
(Write | 3 wrote)

[03 Jan 2004|12:45am]

A few friends of mine were having trouble with love and I was having a bout of insomnia so while I was trying to sleep parts of this poem started to form themselves in my mind. I then decided that if I wasn't going to sleep anyway, I might as well write the poem down.


Love dreams and is set to flight upon the stars of night.
Lightly it hang sideways; the moon's display,
arrayed splendor that draws the careening human tide.
Glides back. The abyss ever drawn away.

Naught never swallows and remains in sight.
Alight; ever gleaming, to assail lusts abatement.
Statements dispatched; sent forth with words to write.
Height of pursuit attained, O words, fall Somnolent.

Through the oneiric curtain, sound lilts and is set off.
Love, here, dances in dazzle sheeted fields.
Yielding up, such purple blossoms and gaily lit laughs;
chaffing the fools that chased but did not kneel.

Age lurks at the edge of what we utter.
Letters discarded; Dreamer waits in sparkling reflect.
Nectar drawn up through our eyes unshuttered.
Stuttering the lost passage of our love; genuflect.
(Write )

[28 Nov 2003|09:35pm]

I saw the words "chandelier swings" on some website and I immediately thought of other phrases it would go good with. I used half my own feelings and experiences and half things I made up to make this.

I live in the smallest house in the biggest city
in the most polluted country on the earth.

I have the darkest kitchen and no hot water
and I must wash my dishes by hand.

I like to sit in my chair and knit pretty scarves
and run down the stairs and sit on the roof.

The weather outside is frightful and the
haze from the rain stares down and reminds me
of my better days.

My cat's litterbox stakes its claim in the
corner of my sitting room right underneath
the fake fern hanging from the ceiling.

Her food bowl is always full and sits on the
carpet I put in that dark. dark. kitchen.

She refuses to drink water from the tap and instead
I catch her in the middle of a lap, drinking from the toilet.

When I get fiesty I like to open the drapes
and sing and swing from the chandelier strings.

The songs I come up with are frightful, and the
haze my voice creates echoes and reminds me
of my better days.

In between my bed and the wall there is a large
gap, because the headboard I splurged on doesn't fit.

But it has a mirror. And we all know what mirrors are good
for, and we all know what mirrors on beds are used for.

The ceiling of sparkle spackel and stalgatites provides me for
endless minutes, hours, nights of amusement when I've come home
and don't want to be here.

My walls are covered too much in things that represent who
I was two years ago, who I was when I felt I was at my

The things portrayed on them are frightful, and the
haze of those images is cloudy and reminds me
of my better days.

Sometimes I come home after a long or short night
of friends and marijuana.

Whenever I lay in my bed I fall fast asleep after rocking in
an imaginary boat for a bit.

I wake up every hour on the hour because of my cotton mouth
and I must make my way to the kitchen to take a drink.

I'm afraid each time my mother will notice and know what's up
and I'll just tell her...mumsy dearest, I have a cough, can I
quench my thirst?

The way I feel those times is frightful, and the
haze of the soda bottle I drink from is delicious and reminds me
of my better days.

I have to sit and think to myself,
is there more to life than this?

For a high school dropout who won't get a better job
because she wants her hair green....perhaps not.

These countless weekends when I do this and that and
hang out in places that my age shouldn't allow me into...

I always tell myself, "I think I'm getting out of hand." But I hate
the hand in the first place. All the more reason to get out.

Sometimes I think my life is frightful, and the
haze of my dreams slowly fades away and reminds me
of my better days.
Which will be tomorrow.

(Write | 2 wrote)

[26 Aug 2003|09:32pm]

[ mood | uncomfortable ]

she's the type of girl that likes to take it slow and sit under trees near churches and talk to shy boys about poetry. so you're a little older. so you're a little cooler. so you're amanda. so, i watched them pick you up under my canopy in a green car, my friend knew i thought you were pretty and you fucking knew i thought you were pretty. i'm always a sucker for girls with blonde hair. i'm always a sucker for girls like you. all the way from bayview and york mills i went to maple for you. "she deserves better, don't ya know? she's a pop punker and she got real nice lips. she's going run away with some guy from ajax or oshawa," someone should have said. yeah, i would have shook my head and said, "jealous. she's my pop punker and she's a pretty girl." i dare you, let's move real slow, pretend like we aren't breathing. pretend like you never hurt me, darlin'. we could be so quiet under gases and stars and i would ask, "how the fuck do they kiss in berlin? how the fuck do they kiss in berlin, darlin'?" and you would say, "don't you know i deserve better? i'm a pop punker and i've got the lips to prove it. you want a safety pin?" you're a real pretty girl and you like things like emo and cute boys. you're a real pretty girl, i'm sure they i talk about you. kiss me like they do in berlin.

Inspiration? Some girl. She's real pretty and she liked me and she was out of my league. She's German and I remember one day I went all the way from summer school to the Canada's Wonderland to meet up with her and friends. And then she tried picking some guy up at the end of the night because I was too quiet. Ahhh...teenage romance.

(Write )

Storybook (secondhand shoe) [24 Aug 2003|09:04pm]

To all the liars over which I've loved and lusted.

Storybook (secondhand shoe)

Tell me another story
and I'll have enough to write a book
since you won't give me a happy ending
I've gotta go and add a hook.

"what was it that bit you this time?"
the dragon? (or another maiden fair?)
maybe we can skip the details
cause from this dungeon it's just hard to care.

tell me another story
and I'm gonna have to build a mote
but you'll make your way across with a fresh sack of lies
carried on a gilded boat.

when you're big enough to snag the fairy
and trick her into thinking all you know
it suddenly does not seem quite contrary
that with bitterness and callous, gardens grow.

tell me another story
and we've a best seller on our hands
after all, who doesn't love a fairy tale
and you've given me every single one you can.

others get their prince charming in white gold encasement
in proof that their dreams do come true
but always stuck with prince charming of his parents' basement
is this little young woman
in a second hand shoe.
(Write | 2 wrote)

[23 Aug 2003|12:45pm]

This biology never falls short of artistry in this aluminum bucket of stale coffee.
And should I press it's semen to my lips you will find the remnants of yourself,
Walking on Broadway Avenue in lingerie
Connecting the dots between the stars beneath his finger.
We open our hands in the shape of a nova,
Cursing fireflies and nurses from the scene of the crime
As we wrap the purple caution tape around ourselves.
We dare to draw a circle on a paper,
Saying, "We could self-destruct right here..."
We open our mouths to trap carbon dioxide.
And our holes.
As they gape
A searchlight finds our faces
And we are in awe of it's radiance.
We are in awe of it's radiance.
We are in awe.
After months of labour,
After years of failed conception,
After eras of birthpains
We are finally utterly prettier than each other.

I saw a scene in my head and I just wrote. There really is no meaning.
(Write | 1 wrote)

[23 Aug 2003|12:38pm]

They are beige, growing brighter,
Set into motion by the computer's incandescent face.
They are not even aware of themselves.
They are not even aware that if they cease,
That my head will suffer trauma
And my neck will no longer be differentiated through my collarbone and my chin.

They dim away as the computer loses fire.
They shy away as the computer closes it's eyes.
They seap away as the computer's halo flutters.
They fly away as the computer grows darker.

They should be alive.
They should realise that they are not alive.
They should...realise...

That the box beneath them, holds power and glory,
That mankind strived for since technology was conceived.
Maybe you wonder what the grey bullet hole box is like?
And calligraphy can be found when it's body's modem is closer to the father organism.

It is common for each Canadian family to own one.
It is common for each Canadian family to also own a suicidal child.
It is common for each Canadian family not to be a family, either.

I think not,
The computer's gaping mouth will open when I feel it to be necessary.
As it grows brighter, as do my eyes, for a moment,
The force forcing on my eyelids to expand,
The pull pushing on my eyebrows to levitate,
Are all computer animated.

Your arms are again brought into focus,
As the black of my eyes are manipulated into a smaller circle,
And I see you reaching,
Reaching out for me,
I sit still and continue to type,
You are heartless and I am motionless.
Together we would be less and less,
Dying slower with each passing yesterday becoming a new January,
Coming to a complete halt, when we feel broken and mutilated,
By the skylights we hover over,
And the street lights we hover against.

To be you,
With no blood or organs,
Would be an elaborate concept.
All of your 270 degrees, all coincide with yourself,
Interpreted narcissistic by the outside world,
And our microcosm would be beautiful,
People will pay diamonds, just to sit upside down,
In our corner, and look down onto a keyboard and a mouse.

Freedom and/or liberation will be ours,
When you break free from your geometrical frères.
And I shatter the mould of whatever's clay that holds me back.
Then, finally, we will throw impressionistic paintings over the city,
And smile, knowing we fed the public streets art for breakfast.

I was in the computer room and I was in the dark and I looked above the computer and saw where the walls and the ceiling made one of the corners of the room, I just started typing about both of us being free.
(Write )

My World [22 Aug 2003|04:59pm]

[ mood | amused ]

In my world
An enchanted star
Envelops a purple sky
And sends bursting from it
A dream
A dream of hope, love, and laughter
Exsisting only in my world
...not this one

I dream of love - infinite
No attachments broken
No lies rendored
Nothing forgotten
Just you and I
Up to our necks
In "meant to be"

A purple sky no more
But a poetic, yet deep blue
Like your eyes
And my love

The rain falls down
And outlines my angelic form
Clinging to my eyelashes,
Are your tears
Formerly afraid to cry
You embrace your weaknesses
And me as well

The day never ends
The moon holds back the sun
As to keep our youth
and purity
Forever intact
My love for you
reflects from my never ceasing smile
Your love for me
exuding from your entrancing eyes

The angels circle around us
And sing as I do
Humming the sweetest melodies
As we lay
In secret gardens once forgotten
Not even a need to speak
But still we do
We speak only in sonnets
-in rhymes
This fuitful exsistance
...heaven sent

I am breathing only you
As you place a wreath of lilacs in my hair
As our fingers intertwine
Our souls collide
And in it's innosense
I fall deeper in love

The stars fill the sky
And we name each of them
After us
There's Sweet and Pure
and Warmth and Joy
The brightest - Love

I am yours
Until the end of time
Even after our love shall remain
Even if we have to die
Our love will not
Love can change the world
It changed my world
Even if only a dream

In my world
An enchanted star
Envelops a purple sky
And I am saved

My inspiration for this poem was my boyfriend, Nick. He is my whole life and everything in it. Actually, it's quite safe to say that HE is my world...

(Write | 2 wrote)

[21 Aug 2003|02:54pm]

[ mood | cold ]

Find myself dreaming that you would exist again..
Come back to me, darling dear.
Come back to me and feel just That near.
I know you arent that far from my heart..
But your just so far from my arms.
Find myself staring at the stars you onced looked at here..
So come back to me, my darling dear..
Come back to me, and know there is nothing left to fear.
I just want to see those stars shining in your eyes again;
Feel as if there is something other than the end.
Find myself in your grasp..
I knew i would find you at last.
Come a little closer, darling dear.
I just want to hold you..
So we can both be so far from here.
You know that sea we let our love spread across?
Well i let my blood spread across..
So now i am here..
No need to come back when i came for you.
It was the last resort.. the only thing i could think to do.
I'm glad youre smiling, my darling dear.
I ended it all to fall from grace into your soul to be with you.
Just know, my ghost-love,
I had no fear.
So take me with you so we can be so far.. but always so near.

random inspiration due to listening to Hole - Malibu.. as you can see :points to current music: .. and because i want my love to be here when he is just a bit too far away. No.. he hasnt passed away.. just sometimes it feels like he has when he feels too far away. That's all, i do suppose.
(Write )

[18 Aug 2003|06:56am]

I decided this morning
[18 Aug 2003|06:43am]

I set up a storm in my head
that laid bare my neural landscape
its structure naked, exposed
...a bit disgusting
I explored of my nerves the branches
kicking those out that were still holding
fast from my neck

Witness my impatience at their burgeoning
yes, look at me getting upset and don't laugh
``that won't do" I am mumbling in a contained shout
I gather them fed up before they are ripe
drown them in the river...
``they were not flowers, see?"
You shake your head. I saw you.

I skipped a season and there I am in the winter
You catch up and go past me
Carefully stacked on the roadside
my frail frame relieved of so much walking.
Thank you to you and you and you
who told me to keep going...
I don't feel so bad at all. You wish I did?


This is a poem about inspiration not coming, and people trying to hold me down. I don't like it, but that won't keep me from posting it. I guess that is the difference between outstanding poets who never show their work, and those who show up and you have to read. Too bad, uh?
(Write )

[12 Aug 2003|08:11am]

ernest hemingway spoke to me in a dream

ernest hemingway
spoke to me in a dream
except he was hispanic
so i called him ernesto
"dame un dolar,"
he said.
so i gave him a dollar.
"dame un lapiz,"
he said.
so i gave him a pencil.
"dame un papel,"
he said.
so i gave him a paper.
he then wrote a short story
and signed it
ernesto hemingway


i woke up at 4.30 this morning and couldn't go to sleep. so i wrote this.
(Write | 1 wrote)

[11 Aug 2003|10:06am]

Hooray he said,
as the first rain fell,
Boo he said,
as the rain suddenly stopped,
Hooray again,
as the second rain fell,
This is a joke he said,
as the rain stoped again,
I hear a storm he said,
as the first lighting fell,
But where is the rain he said,
as none seemed to fall,
Where oh where is the constant rain he said,
as it still has yet to fall

Inspired by the ridiculous heat wave in England at the moment...
(Write )

. a prayer for the innocent who don't know how to live . [10 Aug 2003|03:30pm]

[ mood | crazy ]

*stalks you from a distance*
I’ve watched you dream of being broken.
(I can smell it on you)
you exude vulnerability,
you flirt with the perpetrator,
I know because I watch you.

*seductively whispers*
I know what you want,
I can give it to you.
I can set you free.
(Follow me…)

*gently puts hand around your throat*
Have you ever wondered what it’s like…
what it’s like to drown?
Can you imagine your surprise,
When you realize you can breathe underwater?
(Not even death will take you away from me…)

*looks in your eyes*
The secret to Resurrection,
Is not to fight death,
But to embrace it.
To realize there is no pain.
(And there never was)

*violates you*
Have you ever imagined
imagined what happens AFTER you drown?
(When you accept that you cannot escape life)
I can show you how…
How to swim in the chaos.

*throws you away*
There's no use in fighting it.
What you need to realize
Is you have no choice,
I control you…
(And you prefer it this way)

Today, in class, we discussed learned helplessness. I couldn't stop thinking about my grandmother. What kind of will it takes for a person to adapt to what she did. In too many ways, I already know. It's in my blood.

My grandfather was a sociopath in every aspect of the word, plus some. My grandmother gave her children to her mother so he'd have less access to them. When she did try to leave him, he'd beat and strangle her within an inch of her life... repeatedly. Eventually, she stopped trying. Even though he'd still come home, drag her out into the woods, nearly kill her and leave her for dead. She was gone by that point (inside). When she regained consciousness out in the woods, she wouldn't even try to escape. She'd just go right back to the house. He's been dead 20 years now and she STILL refuses to leave the house.

(Write | 2 wrote)

"sour solace" [24 Jul 2003|04:14pm]

[ mood | artistic ]

I guess this kind of speaks for itself, not very metaphorical. it's what i get for dating a pederast, lol. it's actually not finished but I wanted to get it down before I forgot it.

I always tried to be there for you
instead you discarded me like last year's superhero toy
and found solace in the form
of a fourteen year old boy

this is what I get for trusting
this is what I get for giving affection another try
you'd rather scope the daycare than the discotheque
if only I'd knew that you were that kind of guy.

(Write )

[10 Jul 2003|08:21am]

fireflies in brooklyn

two fireflies in brooklyn
on a warm summer night
each took turns
flickering their backs
in the fair moonlight
left and right
left and right
"isn't it lovely?" asked one bug
"isn't it bright?"
"the halo around you,"
answered the other,
"is always a site."
a lovely site
in the heat of the night
"there!" pointed one bug
now big and bright
"take a left up on that street
then on bedford a right."
first a left
and then a right
always a left
followed by a right
and then they reached
their moonlit plight
not too far
from 6th and wythe
the city lights
shone big and bright
the smell of pizza
a brooklyn delight
"and you're the brightest
light tonight,"
said the firefly
so right
the other one blushed
like a christmas light
turning red
then turning white
first turning red
then turning white


i went out to eat mexican food with my roommates. on the way back i saw fireflies. along bedford. in brooklyn. it was a warm summer evening. i like fireflies.
(Write | 2 wrote)

[07 Jul 2003|08:25pm]

the moon at mars; or "i left the door open more than a crack only to reveal my crack..."

the moon to my right
while peeing at mars
just north of houston
in a nice little bar

whispered me something
i'll always remember
"you've a mighty big heart," he said
"but not so big a member."


i was peeing in the bathroom at mars bar on the corner of 1st street and 2nd ave in manhattan (just north of houston street) and i looked over and noticed the moon out the window. i was very happy. i wrote this on one of my "frying fish with ben and ralph" cards on the subway on my way back from work.
(Write )

[03 Jul 2003|06:45am]

[27 Jun 2003|01:50pm]

Chacun dans son cocon, bulle précaire prête à éclater,
fleur de lotus, je médite, hanches bien ouverte,
le train se balance immobile à deux cents à l'heure,
un aveugle sommeille les yeux ouverts,
il traverse des paysages immenses,
où les insectes grouillent.

This one was written while travelling in the super fast French train, the TGV, which is quite impressive, probably the fastest you will ever get on the ground in your life.

The cycle from the cradle is now past.
[19 Jun 2003|10:08pm]

The cycle from the cradle is now past,
The early petals of flowers got in garlands gray,
I am on the cross, my wings' feathers,
Now as dead as leaves without roots.

You are dressed in black and not moving,
I willed you all my keepsakes,
Hoisted the white flag and got sickled,
I will now rest, tombstones my only audience.

This was composed from bits and pieces from others' poems, and trying to make sense of the words I picked here and there in an anthology. It surprisingly fit my mood at the time.

Annah, Annah Gram.
[12 Jun 2003|10:35pm]

In her kilos, there are no grams,
And her weight, got she so down,
In her descent, she left heaven,
And of the name of dog, she gave the rats,
Damning the stars, no ass dreaming.

She had to leave, and now she dies,
Colors melting, in a red scream,
Shut down shouter, slit slut cut up.

This is about anorexia and suicide, I don't know much about this affliction. It is an attempt at having as many anagrams as possible. It was fun composing it.
(Write )

Carbonari [21 Jun 2003|01:08pm]

I wrote this about being Palestinan and the struggles my Father had when he first came here. If you want a mind blowing site that is supported by UN reports visit. Carbonari means a revolutionist in Spanish and a member of the police in Italian but more of a protector of the land http://domino.un.org/unispal.nsf/5ba47a5c6cef541b802563e000493b8c/aeac80e740c782e4852561150071fdb0!OpenDocument


I live in silence
And distrusted
The color of flesh
And bones
Have tainted your eyes
Your opinions
Of whom I am
So I hide in the crowd
It’s easy for me
My flesh is light
And creamy
I look like your mother
Your Jewish aunt
Or perhaps your Italian neighbor
It’s easy I blend
But over the blue
My blood remains shackled
Imprisoned by faith
Allah hasn’t freed his slaves yet
But my father freed his name
He, unlike so many
Never arrived on a boat
But first class
Double stature
Sat with kings
Drinking banana molt
Sat with kings laughing
My name had power once
My name meant life
We live in silence now
Changed our meaning
We could not live here
As what we were
The unwanted
The guilty before wronged
We changed our names
We wanted freedom
But there are still shackles on my feet
And cold calls of my name echoes
The chill of what has happened
In the chosen land
What has happen to your savors steps?
What happened to your God’s country?
What has happened here?
Written in blood
In camps you’ll here us singing prayer
In camps we will find peace
In camps we will die
Until you finally see
That you can kill a man body
But you can never kill what he believes

(You can't change or disagree til you fully understand)
(Write )

The Shit Poem [18 Jun 2003|11:19am]

I could scribble shit
for an eternity,
and never tell you
anything of truth.
And shit:
effluvium, feces, crap,
poo, defecation;
Any linguistic marker
for this is
primordial in primate
psychology -
only having impact
when thrown.

Yes, I know it's cliche to write about the incredulousness inherent in putting anything to words. However, the lack of real worth I find in what I do with them leads me, at times, to attack them themselves.
(Write )

[12 Jun 2003|09:09am]

lenin, epilepsy and me

lenin and me
we share a disease
and we've both middle names
'xcept his is ilyich
and mine is eduardo


i had a seizure at work the other day. the first one i've had in over four months. it was a bad one. not the flop around like a dying fish kind. but it was still bad. later that day, i looked up on the internet for "famous epileptics." i got this:


and then last night, before i fell asleep i threw on "the complete stone roses" cd and wrote that little ditty.
(Write | 3 wrote)

Vice [02 Jun 2003|03:10pm]

This poem was inspired by the neverending torture of trying to find love. The idea that this torture is like the grazing tail of monkey on one's back came to me while taking a shower this morning.



strung out, love-junkie with a monkey on his back
seductively wagging its tail to and fro
from left to right, eye to eye
taunting its owner

that big gaping grin
cackling like the cheshire

an endless line of strategic maneouvering
and not once do I even grace it

a myriad of attempts for recognition
and not once can I fathom its significance
as it keeps wagging, teasing

every now and then it'll just hang there
nigh two inches from my nose
asking, begging to be caressed

the very first time I simply lunged forward
grappled it bluntly with both fists
and received a brute fisting in return
frazzled, I was forced to let go

once, the primate actually wrapped it around me

in utter disbelief I fed it
like a fool
with a plethora escape scenarios
testing its resiliency
which merely increased the stranglehold
until some unprecedented climax

and then it was gone

its always here though, perched on my shoulder
flicking my cheeks with its tail
wagging to and fro
waiting desperately for some righteous response

the action is irrelevent, regardless if I am
hungry or patient
outspoken or submissive
forceful or accomodating
because the end result is always the same

with my face buried deep within these marred hands
(Write )

Cold Cash [30 May 2003|04:00am]

Got a dime to spare?
Dire _spire_
Come on dude, look at me.
Hear _hear_ welf my fare,
Got some change?
I would like some coffee
Don't blab him off, go it easy,
and smoke a cigarette,
don't go all upset
take a bath,
clean my clothes,
what you doing! Done your math?
I am tired of sleeping,
Look at me
Ok, ignore me, why don't you?
Go away.


This poem was inspired by the vision of beggars in the US and in France, I think beggars look so much alike in any country, they are the first Internationale. I once was given money by an old lady as I was resting in the porch of a church in Spain, and I now regret having given it back, I should have saved it!
(Write | 1 wrote)

[28 May 2003|09:06am]

sitting down in chinatown

we are sitting down
sitting down
in chinatown
in a stairwell
in a minimall
with chinese writing
on a chinese wall
so the two of us
at half past ten
can take the bus
to washington
on the chinese bus
the two of us


i wrote this while waiting to take the chinese bus to dc.
(Write | 8 wrote)

Hello! [05 May 2003|12:45pm]


Hi. I just joined like 3 poetry communities. I've posted entries before on my personal journal that had the poem and then told the story for the inspiration, so I figured this community would be good for me. And I decided that for my first post in here, I'd just link to one of those entries... It's one of my favorite poems though... Enjoy.

(Write )

Hate me up! or Stalker hate [22 Apr 2003|06:38pm]

Hate that knows,
Shows me the way,
Everywhere I sit,
It follows my steps.

Hate that loved
And got rejected
Love frustrated,
Getting its revenge.

Hate that knows,
Everywhere I go,
No matter what,
I won't get respite.

Hate that loved
And got rejected,
Love spent
Getting its money back.

Hate that knows,
How to find me, how?
Everybody sees it,
Just like my shadow.

Hate that fills,
Up and go,
Doesn't stay still
Nowhere can she hide.

Hate that will,
Never let me live,
Never gives its name
But signs it as I leave.

No escape, no pity, no hope and no exit,
I walk away and people can read,
Behind me in my steps, the words with hate filled,
Hate that stalks and never lets me live,
Hate that obsesses over me all,
Hate that my presence frustrates,
with no purpose, other than me, other than me.


The end is very weak, I will have to change that. It is about some idiot stalkers over here, no big problem. I guess that is what you get when you manage communities in such dictatorial manners as I do. LOL! Debates can get tough! And people quite jealous!
(Write )

[20 Apr 2003|10:53pm]

jack and jill,
went up the hill,
to fetch a pail of water,
jack came down,
and broke his crown,
and jill came,
tumbling after,
jill stood up,
and shot herself,
she couldn't cope without,
jack was distraught,
and fled,
jack fled and fled,
unable to deal with,
the mess he had caused around,
simple mistakes,
he cried,
simple mistakes,
he sobbed,
jill shot herself,
and jack fled,
but jill came tumbling after.

I was angry, annoyed, things weren't going right. People had said things, but they wasn't how i interpeted them. it was just pent up thoughts...
(Write | 3 wrote)

[20 Apr 2003|12:22am]

poem dedicated to my beloved

bah! to he that bashes
the lovely women with mustaches
should a sexy creature be impared
because she has an upper lip with hair?
i pity the lass who is jeered
while combing and grooming her beard
so please let's start behaving
and prevent the babes from shaving!

besides my beloved, here was my inspiration:

(Write | 2 wrote)

My first poem in the community!! :) [09 Apr 2003|07:02pm]

[ mood | anxious ]

-Is it all hate?-

You know exactly what to say,
to kick me to the ground.

Do you like seeing me in the dirt?
You say no, but yet you kick me again when I'm down.
How can you hate someone you love so much?

Do you like seeing me in the dirt?
Is it all hate?

I wrote this after a rreeeaaalllyyy bad relationship. Tell me what you think. Critique if you want too. I'm an art major in college... I'm used to getting critiqued. lol! :)

(Write | 2 wrote)

[05 Apr 2003|02:21pm]

Take a ball bearing,
and roll it across a table,
notice how the image changes,
not by much,
not too little,
it conveys its own perception,
of the world it is in,
Take a ball bearing,
notice how the image is curved,
notice how it isn't how it really is,
notice how it is twisted,
notice how it sees a wider view,
Take a ball bearing,
and see how it differents with you,
see how different it is,
see if its the truth,
see if your the truth,
or see if it is a lie.

The inspiration was a simple ball bearing, and me just seeing how the image that is on it, isn't how I see it. Kind of like life.
(Write | 1 wrote)

first poetry post [26 Mar 2003|04:45pm]

[ mood | happy ]

my first post here ;) this was inspired by the situation is was in; i was falling apart, completely, and nobody seemed to notice or care.


boundless inner fury
is slippery, like ice, and
the fingers that claim it
are negligent and irresponsible.
so often, others
view my fire.
tears light the way,
and the sky of black and blue
to punish those fingers
my victims are rioting
and boundless inner fury
splatters the dirty streets
because the breaking of
a quiet soul
is deaf on deaf ears.

whaddya think? it's kinda corny,lol =p

(Write | 2 wrote)

lust in transition time, blue to green [20 Mar 2003|12:47pm]

[ mood | artistic ]

There is a lot of meaning behind the whole blue/green thing, here. For one thing, my boyfriend, who this poem is about, provokes a lot of green/blue imagery (see: synesthesia). Also, we started seeing eachother (I detest the word "dating") in mid-february, when winter slowly starts to turn into spring. Winter makes me think of blue: the bluish shine of ice and snow, the coldness of the color itself, and Spring makes me think of green: you know, new grass, new leaves, the budding of new life. That itself, also represents what I was feeling at the time I met him. Some "newly budding" adrenaline, after what seemed forever in hibernation. Jasmine is used because it is a winter and spring flower (winter-spring transition), and becuase he also provokes the smell of jasmine (which is very nice). As for the "liquid" imagery, well, that's sex. ;)

*lust in transition time, blue to green*

because sex with you is not winter
it is not yet spring
it is green sprung from months of blue
like the the small winter jasmine that could not wait until April, having to peek its impatient, wanting, head-bulb from fetal position in the soil
{our sex, then, is unorthodox (?)}
the heat of it melts the remains of february-march snow, the drippings of blue-cum-green (pun intended) drips like 10,000 liquid violins playing a dissonant symphony in my ear.
our sex plays on transitioning time.

(Write | 1 wrote)

Hee...this is slightly amusing... [11 Mar 2003|07:58pm]

[ mood | amused ]

I DO have an inspiration this time...I do hope the disgruntled user who complained about my lack of inspiration will be satisfied...this one came to me a minute ago when I was sitting on my porch...it's really dark and this car was driving towards my house...the headlights reminded me of the light at the end of the tunnel...this popped into my head...

I'm walking through this darkened tunnel,
pressure on each side.
They're yelling and they're screaming at me,
there's nowhere to hide.
The hands reaching out,
touching and grabbing me.
The knives in their hands,
cutting and stabbing me.

They're pushing and shoving me
this way and that,
traces of blood left from their
claws on my back.

The door at the end
leads to darker surroundings,
but anything's better
than this screaming and shouting.
Cuz it's too much to take,
this hell I dwell inside.
The pressure pressing on me
like a rolling ocean tide.

I can't take it any longer,
the noise and the pain.
Fighting back is useless,
cuz it all remains the same.

But then I reach the door,
and the silence starts again.
Everything goes quiet,
and I think that I might win.

But then I begin to realize,
the silence, I can't take it.
It's making me crazier,
I don't think I can make it.

So I look up at that gateway,
that pitch black door.
Then I walk right through,
and it's the same as before.


Hope ya'll like it...

(Write | 4 wrote)

Shades of Gray [10 Mar 2003|08:58pm]

[ mood | hopeful ]

Again...no clue what inspired this poem, but I was in a better mood than I have been as of late, so I decided to see how it would affect my writing...I only usually write when I'm in bad moods, or upset...it just seems to come easier then I think...

Shades of Gray:
I only see in shades of gray,
nothing's clear in my dreary days.
I can't even tell right from wrong,
but now I know it won't be long.

I can't even tell hate from love,
can't tell the ground from the stars above.
I don't want to be in this place,
bue all that changes when I see your face.

The black bleeds out, the white shines through,
but only when I think of you.
It's only then, when you come near,
that everything separates, and my world becomes clear.

So when things begin to blend,
and I sink back in my world of sin.
You'll help me, you'll pull me out,
cuz you're the one I can't live without.

(Write )

The Edge [09 Mar 2003|09:21pm]

[ mood | Edgy ]

I don't really know what inspired this, but people have really been on my case yesterday...and one of my friends really has me worried...maybe that's it...

The Edge:
Their yelling, their screaming,
cold glares silently demeaning,
push me to the edge.

Their condescending eye,
their words, all lies,
push me to the edge.

The deafening noise,
their deadly toys,
push me to the edge.

The crushing silence,
impulses of violecne,
push me to the edge.

The blanketing darkness,
the lonely apartness,
push me to the edge.

The knives in their words,
their tongues sharp as swords,
push me to the edge.

The questionless judging,
the hating and grudging,
push me to the edge.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad
to go over the edge.

(Write | 5 wrote)

God with his fist on the table slams [28 Feb 2003|01:24pm]

God with his fist on the table slams,
Angry, the bearded guy frowns his bushy brows,
Takes a peek, piercing its marrow, on the
world beneath him, turns to his blushing angel,
'Why didn't you tell me so?'
Drunk, red-faced and unsteady, God
Sits up, tries a few of his tricks,
but nothing works, his red wine bottle, got his power.

I saw God yesterday, huge and depressed,
giving bread to birds, throwing stones to people,
so eager to be loved, but not believing in love.


I wrote that one in one of the secret places in my city where there is a terrace next to an archeology museum next to a cathedral, and they serve coffee and various drinks at very low prices, and the man who maintains the refreshment stall (buvette, in french) is a big man who has got lots of problems and is very imperious and irascible. He was left by his wife a while ago and is depressed, and his whole universe seems to be his buvette and the terrace, he looks at you with his angry eyes and if you put your shoes on a chair or do not put your rubbish in the trash can, you are in for serious problems. I had a big argument with him, which I won because I told him I knew the place before he got employed to manage it, so I could keep on doing as I did before! Now, he is super friendly with me.

Ciao bye bye, keep on rolling!
(Write | 2 wrote)

[04 Feb 2003|03:57pm]

After lokust made a comment about the restoration of an old war ship that was partially destroyed in an old war, so that it could be used in the new war, I was inspired. The symbolism of such an act fascinated me and so I wrote a poem called THE CALL TO WAR as a result.

and now for the poemCollapse )
(Write | 2 wrote)

Untitled [02 Feb 2003|10:31pm]

The air is dry in my
mouth, the words stick to
my skin like some strange
black & white nectar,
closing portals and prophecies
within its markings, scars
from the places it has
been. Everything is half-way
to removed, the long road
dim under a skirt of dust
and my heart balances on
the edge of a life support
machine as the earth
feels like its losing its
grip on the sky.
You are behind clouds and
beyond mountains
and I haven't the strength to fly.


Inspired by the illness of a friend...
(Write | 1 wrote)

Flack [19 Jan 2003|11:28am]

[ mood | still angry, but still ]

And now, let me take advantage of my own new rules!


Flak, flak, flak, I am being attacked,
by a loser, a little talker, a midget on a soapbox,
Talk, talk, talk, that is all you can do,
I am tired of your talking,
so just fuck off, shut the fuck up,
I am not interested in what you got to say,
I got disgusted with your ugly kind of play,
You got nothing in you to trap my mind,
nothing to catch my brain, nothing of that kind,
no imagery, no poetry, nothing more than things hardcore,
you are nothing more than a condescending arsehole,
I was tried, and now I am tired,
Your stuff has no value to me,
you are a bunch of lies and stupidities,
a liar in a white collar, indentured, enslaved,
This battle does not mean anything, not a thing,
I am sick of you and your leering smile.


Freely inspired by a poem by goodfishgobad, which is here. Note I contacted the original author, I think this is good manner. I wrote the poem as my last post to battlerap, after they beat the shit out of me and I quit disgusted. This is when I realized my main motivation for being in that community was to release pent-up anger that I was not consciously aware of, and decided to quit and take time to heal myself.


(Write )

Calvinball [19 Jan 2003|11:14am]

[ mood | cheerful ]

Hello people!

In the great tradition of Calvinball - making the rules of the game along the way - I changed the community's user info. This will dramatically (!) enlarge the community's allowed domain of inspiration.

Before: You could only post rewritings of poems posted by members.

After: Just tell us what - images, writings, experience - gave the inspiration for your poem. Provide a link to it whenever possible, or just tell us the story behind the poem.

The new user info is here!


(Write )

[14 Nov 2002|08:56pm]

Rewriting of killacupcake's "Popup Book" You probably didn't see her rewriting of "babble", as she left it as a comment to my poem. I rewrote her poem from the perspective of a man.

We late for theater
I finally blew it
Sorry and damn it,
"Je te quitte"

Smile died down:
I was not simply leaving,
she was left crying.
As I turned back,
and in the mirror saw,
cheeks white of rimmel run down,

I chuckled, satisfied,
"This was just a waste,
of perfectly good makeup"

New poem: Yogi-Khan-Coenobi I am not very inspired those days, so that this is an old poem of mine.

In the shadow,
Down, deep down,
In the shadow,
A milestone.

No one knew it,
No one noticed,
He had reached it,
They all yawned.

In his mind,
Came rushing,
Big questions,
Many passions.

They came rushing,
But did not stop,
He went diving,
And reached the top.
(Write | 2 wrote)

Nonsense Sonnet #8 [14 Nov 2002|06:39am]

Die, die to the old man! In with the new!
Tear down these rotted, hulking stones! We need
refurbished marble, statuesque milieu.

The old man whimpers; man, a running bleed
but flowing nowhere and for nothing. One
can only wonder why the old man proceeds

so slowly to the bosom of death. Run,
damn you, man, run to that death! The reward
is not the hereafter, but being one.

The new man knows this; in fact, it's his sword.
His mouth reveals the sheath of wisdom. He
entices with silence and the absurd.

The final man is Phoenix, plume aflame:
he lays bare vision no dead man can claim.
(Write )

[05 Nov 2002|01:19am]

[ mood | accomplished ]

Freeform- Object in Room (rewrite) from 6122568

Those torn pages like a book at hand, 20
Blast this music I have hardly heard
That star that embraces your wall
Will fall into your hand so you know
It is as plastic as your heart will be someday.
Stamped with the number of your birth.

My poem: Day of the Dead

The pathway fills with spears, the light that no one hears,
Spaces between the picture frames, the names that no one speaks.
Lost inside some outer shell that houses this pounding rock,
This able flesh caught dreaming.
Some scheme of knowing where this is all leading, stampede of wonders,
Hurtful in solitude, majestic in meaning,
Flow out of the mouth like arrows, piercing skin.
Beginning at that carpet held by bared feet, charmed into existence,
By a kind word or mislead start. Hearts ablaze like snakes with dire heat,
Meeting up with the joys that want to lead them back home.
Squared world, with the items on display, heads turn away,
As if the candle flame might suck them in, tin sun, twin orbs of denial,
Make a smile with some bitter taste of hope,
Run desire away into some spring day and strip down personal meaning,
Seething a mist that walks into this waking day like fireplay,
In the caution of hushed speech, out of reach, the patterns fly,
To create and fire a million stars into the cloudless sky.
Who can throw the dice for another?
Ask for advice and whom to trust, some incapable lust
Riding on a panther whose spots cannot be seen, satisfied misery,
As far as the eye can see. Some eyes are better suited for the ground.
Caution, those daydreams abound, wrapped in white linen, spun like silk
About pure fingers, that is life, always renewing itself, in violent health,
Some pleasant wealth of time possessed by all to bind up vivid memories,
To find pictures in the albums of the still not dead and remember
I am more than this face. Like a mask, I cover yours too.

(Write )

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