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Best Poems Written by Ramael Vosem

Below are the all-time best Ramael Vosem poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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chasing cars

one day, I saw a car going by
with my fourteen-year-old self in the driver's seat.
he wasn't even the one driving the car. 
it was hate that was driving the car,
fueling the car,
steering the car,
because the car was a vessel for the thoughts crammed in that trunk
which acts as the engine
the engine was in the back of the car.
that's right; it was the type of car that goes really fast
except when you're stuck in traffic
then you're on the same speed as everyone else.
but there was no traffic
there was nothing stopping the car
the car traveled at the speed of light,
but you see, the thing with traveling at the speed of light,
is that it's hard to stop, easy to lose control,
and time flies away with you,
no matter how little you enjoy the ride.

one day, I was passing by a car wreck
two cars of the same type,
same color,
same age,
the hoods perfectly crushed into each other
the windshields making contact
and I looked at the boy from earlier,
and saw that he had aged four years.

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fear of missing your ''self''

there may be times when you think that everything's changed...
but you look around, and you still don't see anything for what it is...
so you willingly forfeit the hope of what could be, in exchange for the theory that should be.

so naturally, you incline towards your conviction that things simply must be this way...
and anything else that contradicts what has been true since you've been alive, was conceived by the mind of an unborn fetus. 

you don't just want to avoid pain, you want to hurt it back.
you don't just want perfection, you want to make it look easy.
you don't just want to live in spite of everything, you want to work against the world's form and shape, because of the prehistoric theory that it symbolizes true strength.

and what will you do when you have all those things?

you'll always feel like a soldier in a garden.

will you trample over every flower, squirrel, and anthill...

simply because you deem it to be inferior, and that no flower, squirrel, or ant can say otherwise?

life will go on.

so why choose the death of everything,

over the life and oneness of it all?

Details | Ramael Vosem Poem

788 Years

There was a man in the first book of the Bible
The one that we call "Genesis"
There was not one mention of his arrival
Because his story had little significance

The "Harry Pekar" of the ancient times
when people lived many years beyond 70
He was 5'7, red hair, black eyes
And his favorite fruit was tangerines.

He would write songs about the Lord
And write poems about women
Over the years, his soul has grown cold
His scars are sewn up with silk and fine linen

He doesn't mind the empty chambers
He doesn't fear the silence
Because his faith holds him together
Through the never ending waves of sadness

Set fire to the rain, he'll take it with a smile.
He hides all his pain and he does it in style.
His name is Kalsapheth, born in early September 
In the modern day city of Van Nuys 

One fine summer, he awoke in the field
In which he had spent his time toiling away
He made his way to the edge of a river
And as he drank, he saw a different face

A wonderful woman with curly locks
Sensitive and kind, bearing strong resemblance
To some kind of peace, he had long since lost
And now, our hero has found some happiness,

In Jehelshebath, God's beautiful child
Sometimes colorful, and sometimes mild
But all-in-all, she's strong as a vine,
Never felt so strong in such a long time,

And he's never felt so much in such a short time
And he's felt so strongly, he would've had to cry
If he wasn't so strong, so he showed his smile,
A real smile, no one's ever seen in a while

One that can withstand the test of time
In moments of sadness, you'll know that he'll be fine
Because Kalsapheth has no reason to hide,
Through every weather, they stay side-by-side

Set fire to the rain, he'll take it with a smile.
He understands his pain, it was all worth the while
His name was Kalsapheth, till the ripe old age of
Seven-hundred and eighty eight.

He had 27 children in his youthful days
And so many grandchildren, I won't bother to name
He had found his peace, and the LORD took him away
But his song and peaceful spirit will remain

In the words of this poem in a website, on display.
Let the scripture itself remain unchanged
For Kalsapheth took this saying to his grave.
"Let things be, until God brings change"
Amen

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earphones

you might think 
I'm that lazy student
who sits at the front of the class,
puts on his earbuds
and ignores the presentation.

i'm not lazy. 
it's not every day you want people talking in your ear,
with all of that ajzktypzuq1Lgjqq...

whatever plays on my earphones also brings the silence of everything else.

if I don't have my ear buds,
I might hum,
which could distract other students
and I don't want to bother you,
or anyone else.

I could pass any class I want to, really. 
I don't even have to be a genius or anything.
besides,
I didn't get here by failing classes.

I just don't like to hear people talk.
especially not your assumptions.
I don't want you poking my leg.
or interrupting my conversations.

I have my own life too, you know?

the biggest failures in life drown themselves in worldly pleasures,
collecting the energies of other people until their true self collapses under the weight of societal expectations.

take a journey of sound.
it's not a crime.

I've never had time by myself before, you know?
I'm not lazy.
like a printer with magenta, cyan, yellow and black ink, 
I can run on over 6,000 different kinds of energy,
which means I can be over 6,000 different kinds of tired
and this is the kind of fuel I need.

don't poke me.
I'm on the phone with my best friend.
his name is Thom.
Thom Yorke.
he likes MF Doom

and I think that's cooler than your presentation.
thank you for listening.

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CONSEQUENCE

hello
it's me
the result of your unrestrained vices.
i was born from the ground up
from the mouth of the gaping crater left by the density, and gravity of your monolithic pile of sin:

the same crater that exposes the veins of the earth,
causing the magma to bleed out from the skin:

the same skin that has already been,
eroded from the inside out by the seed of dishonor, and rusted by the blood of your wives, your children, your concubines, your brothers, and sisters and neighbors.

the same neighbors who have decided on your condemnation.
 
you shall eat the dust,
until the dust itself eats you.

you shall eat it until you are completely full and wholly dissatisfied.

your blade, which you hold, will become molten steel in your hand.
And the bone of the arm that holds that molten steel shall be broken into 7 segments,

and those segments of bone shall be removed from the skin and pushed into your toothless mouth
and what is left of the arm will be filled with salted concrete and stitched up and wrapped with sandpaper.

your organs and blood shall be removed and replaced with that of those you have killed.

what remains of their lives will enact revenge against your own body.
your sentence shall be finished only when the insatiable appetite of Satan pulls your soul out of your cursed vessel,

and straight into the gaping abyss that is his mouth.

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I am Pagliaccio

The drums...
The cheering...
The singing...
The dancing...

I tire of it all.
I may be Pagliaccio, 
But without the paint and powder...
I am a man.

I am not even Canio...
That name is lost to me now.
Canio loved his wife, Nedda.
The clown you see knows no grief.
The poison in his heart diluted in his blood.

Surviving through the song that anchors me with purpose.
Driven by hatred, greed and bitterness, I sing...

(He wipes his tears)

Ah.....

(His eyes light up, he opens his mouth and smiles. A new song fills his his twisted heart, and he is struck with joy)

hahahaha! HAHAHAHAHA!!!!! HahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!! 

Laugh, Pagliaccio!!

At the joke that is love...!!!!

Laugh at the clown who loved his Arlequin!

Laugh at the love that has poisoned his heart!

Details | Ramael Vosem Poem

AM-241

Sometimes I feel small
Small but dangerous
Like a single, radioactive atom

Barry Manilow, the Beatles, They Might be Giants, Harry Cow, Madlib, Thom Yorke, Corey Taylor, Theodore Geisel.

I don't write the best poems.
I wish I at least looked like I was trying.

I have too much to write about, and not enough words to say it. 

The damage has already been done.

So I float on through an indeterminate stream

unsettling, yet somehow certain,

more so than a gust of wind

a visible, traceable vector

that expands in the favorable paths of life

or at the very least, the eternal now and present things thing that are

the stars,

the gaps in space

and the rocks moving within

the astrotonic plate,

the rift of the present day that is and is always

right here.

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Anew Earth

Will the world be reborn?
Or will this empty bliss be all that we know?

What can we do? 
Can we say anything?

If we can keep on living like we did, then how will we know?

Where do we come from?

Before the dust, the cells, the rocks, and the veins of the earth?

Do we have to choose between torment and singing songs that we never wrote?

Singing out of joy that is not our own?

Why must wear these white robes?

If we are kings, why are we not in control?

Are we and the slaves you give us one and the same?

Can we change our names?

Can we change and create anything?

Where is our art?

Where are the things we take pride in, other than money and gold?

Will we see our dreams come to life?

Or will they stay unknown, even to ourselves?

You will do new things,

But what about us?

What will we do?

What can we do?

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51st street

i saw a lighter on the ground
i saw a kid throw his happy meal out of the window of a car
i saw a stray cat rotting next to his missing poster
all of his stray friends trying to guard the body from rats

every killer, every sinner of every kind
i find them here
on this street

i saw a squirrel on the ground
ran down on the road, buried in dust
I saw trash on the ground
filling up the storm drains, we can't keep up with the flood 

every killer, every sinner of every kind
i find them here
on this street

any living thing with a bit of hope inside
is 99 miles away
from this street

i saw a girl, held against the wall
she was being arrested by the cops
a fallen angel, but nowhere near as saintly
someone I knew, but who cares, really?
i saw them throw her in the back 
i watched them drive away in the opposite direction of my home

every killer, every sinner of every kind
I found them here 
on this street

any living thing with a bit of hope inside
is on the opposite side of the world
from this street

the difference is like night and day
like home and away
it's different here, from where i stand
and that's how i know

i'm not on this street
and i'm never coming back

Details | Ramael Vosem Poem

Fear Of Missing Yourself

MISSING?
WHAT'S MISSING?
NOTHING'S MISSING.
I HAVE EVERYTHING THAT I COULD POSSIBLY WANT.
100 CARS,
$79,119,312,
NO ONE IN MY LIFE TO TRIP ME OVER.
EVERYONE'S EITHER DEAD OR GAVE UP LOOKING FOR ME.

I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO KNOW WHO'S REALLY THERE FOR ME,
SO I'M COMFORTABLE JUST HATING EVERYONE.
JUDGING EVERYONE.

YOU KNOW WHAT'S FUNNY? 

THERE'S PEOPLE OUT HERE, JUST WALKING AROUND, THINKING THEY'RE GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME. 

PEOPLE WHO THINK THEY'RE ON MY LEVEL, AND THEY HAVEN'T EVEN TAKEN A SINGLE STEP.

THEY'RE ON THE SAME LEVEL AS A FETUS. THEY DON'T KNOW THAT, AND THEY NEVER WILL. THEY WOULDN'T KNOW WHO I AM IF I EXPLAINED IN A POWERPOINT WITH JUST 10 SLIDES.

THEY'RE COMFORTABLE JUST THINKING I'LL EVENTUALLY FIND SOME REASON TO ENTERTAIN THEM, JUST AS I'M COMFORTABLE KNOWING WHO THEY ARE, AND NEVER HAVING TO PRETEND TO LIKE THEM. 
I DON'T OWE THEM RESPECT.
I DON'T OWE THEN GRATITUDE.
WHAT DO I OWE TO A FETUS?