Best Unhealing Poems
My Heart is just an organ no memory does it have
The blood it pumps through my viens, is an unhealing salve
I often wonder, what is LOVE; a strange concept to me
Will I ever know of LOVE, as Soupers feel and see
One day I thought, I had found LOVE; but soon that LOVE was gone
Forgotten was the moment, when I thought LOVE broke my Heart
I don't know why I cried, from colourful Sunset 'til early morning Dawn
I can not remember how this LOVE even got its start
It never did return to me, a feeling of LOVE for Eternity
As time went by, as I grew old, of LOVE I had no Memory
Late at night, a nightmare comes, a nightmare named Lenore
The only words this spectre Whispers is,"Now and Evermore"
To be Cont.
(Continued from Part Two - 1)
Nothing of the foisoning ageold homegrownwine
strained through Ol’ Kayyam’s ever draining ruba’iyat bowl
keeps vigil in their scelerosed veins
I will slap this officious reason
In the face with wine in hand
Who so bold to slap sense into the buttressed elus
But those drunk with common insolence sense
Darius the First built a confining wall
around the Greco-Roman Empire’s eastern front
a first wall of self-will
Gengiz Khan tore it down with his sabersharp teeth
after climbing deftly through the David Copperfield hole
in the Great Wall
See how Mao stemmed the tide with his Long March
Only to wall in his Zhong Guo
An Asia within an Asia
The Central Asian Crown
to be propped up again either by vassal states
or by tribute offering nations in return for health-giving largesse
while tough little Viets struggled without wailing on bare feet
to sling the Twentieth Century’s Goldorak down to an ignominious fall
while those that weep after twenty lost centuries at their Wailing Wall
wall their brethren in a closely policed jail
wailing at every television reprisal performance
their insecure un-Godly fate in the dead sea of faiths
at the bare hands of suicidal wall breakers
hemmed in around their waists
like those fencesitters
the Greater East Asia
Prosperity builders who
let MacArthur gird them behind an Ocean Wall
silent superior-thinking men and women
unable to wish their neighbours bonjour
even after the unhealed unhealing wounds inflicted
by kamikaze samurais
walled in behind obsequious bending backs
and mechanical smiling faces
What brews in quiet what festers in stealth
Asia’s white master race
a Botha-deemed non-apartheid equal
ONE of the seven rulers of this world
(Continued in Part Two -3)
Why give up 16days
To places and faces love forgot
To the prescriptions of sorrows choas begot
To the floods of humiliations inspired by turbulent times
To anxiety dangling on a ledge tormented by the exhaustions of fears
To the falling screams draped in tears
To the insulting insults
To the threatening threats
To the vicious mind exploding beyond the persuasions of descriptive descriptions
Describing reasonable reasons
To the scattered seeds of rage that sprouted and endured flowers of discrimination
To the 16seconds wisdom could not find
Cause morals were pireced by shouting fences concertined by boundaries of intimidation.
To the 16mintues of conceived deceptions that latched on to throats
And swelled fists into bitter knots
To the 16months of excuses and unhealing apologies silenced by mass graves of secretive secrets concealed in the terrors of abusive tombs.
To the grieving mind
16years later on
Still littered with fractured memories
That remain removed from the cools of 16 being the sweet age that compels penetrating dialogues of Social maturity and justice
16 longs to be social aware
16 craves for responsibility
16days will
usher in 16nights
To find what can never be lost
To Remember what can not be forgotten,
To Speak what has never being spoken,
To be reborn and love what was never loved
To Reveal
what needs to heal
Cause brutally and violence are obligated to intervene
Were thinking is virtually too frail to convene
Who will cry for the little boy,
Whose wails are heard resounding inside the man.
The man whose ever unhealing wounds are clothed in pride,
These mortal scars he wears beneath his flesh
To him are medals of honour
testimonies to his character
Though his visage is a prominent countenance of pride
He is ailed by a phantom of a little whelp
a wailing boy who stands at the threshold of time
ever hurling his lamentations to the man
with accusatory tones in little grievous voices
accursed day the mother's nipple he purged
with tiny bites and little nibbles his mute protests understood
and from his suckling lips his nourishment rid of with haste,
& left after the mother's guttural wails, a glutinous white trail of sweet aliment.
in persuit of new tastes, urged to crawl away from those who knew him
needing to quench his dry life with spirits and to lick his wounds in solitude
the boy's mistake his haste attitude to become a man
Ever and forever more so, suckling from a bottle's tip the said spirits, the malignant acids,
remedies to calm his demons, heart hardened and his will to live humbled, now with each sip he impugns his need to exist, sipping these pernicious aliments to tenderly nourish his grave and coax his days shorter.
bear not amiss the abhorant, dreaded days ere
when harsh lines marked the path he progressed,
in the keeping of a world with vile intentions this lone boy
with no loving hand to stroke a tender flame on his fragile emotions
accursed day when ignorancy ailed one such as he, to hate blindly
pride and arrogance his eventual downfall ever stirring him to ignorancy.
hate he suckled as nourishment from the nipples of a mother whose bosom coursed with old hate.
robbed of her maidenhood, violated absent care, then the spawn to disdain and loathe unfurl out of the desecrated womb, a gift from nemesis
woe ye the day he bid his own counsil unworthy to heed
ignorant of benevolence his creeping demise unfurl
heart unchanging ever frozen in the frame of the babe
You left us John, yet life goes on
You left too soon, unhealing wound
My brother,
Though cousin;
Closest to me
In our childhood home,
Torn from our tree
Could you have known
The heartache you'd sown
No one can replace you John
In the eight years that you've
Been gone
Remembering you, and hearing
A song
The world spins,
Time moves along
Poet, deep heart, brother mine
We breathe, we live
No, we're not fine
Your pain was deep and traceable
You knew you were Irreplaceable
Now your widows picked up the pieces
Her shattered heart loves again, though
Her pain never ceases
How we've longed to see your face
Your gone: cannot be replaced
The world spins, and life goes on
But you are SO missed brother John
thin moon hangs in the blurring light
when the red tape of work ends
day's end
before darkness darts onto idling pillows
a too slight shine to navigate the strain of living
wounds unstitched
like a heart unhealing from over-crowded transgressions
a feel that's too familiar
nestled in the treads of tired
where we can't always control the skidding
crescent moon
dangling, unsettled in the sky
shrunk in a sparseness of graying
pinched edges from a light threadbare
unable to lift toil from labor's bones
haggling for some salvation
I was pierced!
My heart that first time fell in love to a woman of my dream
beyond all doubts, took no shame of any humiliations
But I, who accepted her, felt the unbearable pain of sharpest sword of lie.
I was bruised!
My heart that once promised honesty, loyalty and pure love
Amidst all hope, still vindicated and tainted by sadness.
I, who did everything to make her happy asked nothing but paid by unhealing wounds.
I was shattered!
A guy who thought of an unending bliss all turned into ashes.
And now, faking and fooling myself of how I mistakenly cross the wrong bridge.
Who dream fantasy but now dwelling in my darkest abyss of first heartbreak.
Life...
On the wake of a new morning...
With countless hopes ascending...
And endless dreams ever knocking...
In excitement of a new beginning...
By persuasions smoothly rolling...
Sometimes with courage unrelenting...
Other times terrible and despairing...
Into desertions of lights dimming...
Yet in irresistable stages unfolding...
Each at a time taking a leading...
Few a reality; many a daydreaming...
The others in hibernation, waiting...
Often with promises unbecoming...
When beaten to wounds unhealing...
Which by taunts of smiles disappearing...
Suddenly flashes like some lightning...
Such a one so terrific and blinding...
Quick at frightening anyone smiling...
But despite many threats rolling...
Some a tough folks keep on moving...
To the rhythm of victory-in-the-making...
As long as they live remembering...
That all that started has an ending...
For all is but living and adventuring...
Life.
He says he loves me, but I caught him cheating.
So why keep lying, my angers not reseading.
How long has it been going on for?
What number am I, I feel so torn.
Two?
Five?
Seven?
I have to let you go, I know.
I can't let my pain show.
Getting past you is my obstical.
Even though it seems impossible.
People say love is an amazing feeling.
All I feel is my heart breaking, unhealing.
You can live life without me here, I know you can.
Because love is a sacrifice, and a sacrifice is all I am.
Sad the heart
sick the mind
from world
of commotion
retiring
its past reliving
motionless drifting
to skeletons
of mind museum
odorless images
soundless captions
spirit of senses
still pricking
its heart
joy seeking
switching from
dreaming
to present of gadgets
unhealing
blowing away walls
breathing out
relics
dropping its shoes
of backward
living
raising its heels
that present
kept hidden
running barefoot
to the forest
for healing
where weeds
grow seeds
untouched by mower
flowers
pure fragrance
perspiring
petals unfold
true colors
unseen
like love
that's pure
because hidden
brooks flow gently
accompanying songs
of birds like treasure
in green hidden
each moment
the forest
renews itself
perpetuating life
by giving
with rains
and sun milk
its body
God feeding
its spirit by seeding
continuing
dependence
with patience
togetherness
teaching
God's
unifying love
revealing.
First Place Winner as "Memory Museum" Brian Strand- All Yours- 6/5/21
When i used to cry
she says,
Why crying?
Is it because you are not a man enough,
Is it because you are too docile to be bold
In her slaping words,
I learn to smile when i cry,
To laugh even if it hurts
I hate my tears,
They makes me weak, but with this unhealing lesion
Can you allow mr just for a moment
Or i should burst in pain
Temperate tongues mingle and press,
And i cant lick without tasting sweet,
My tongue glides up your leg but not past your dress.
The power of unhealing emptiness needing to be stuffed seems to cross your feet.
Endurance is where my tongue doesn't get tired of tasting,
And like good wear I'm Everlasting,
Kegels will not help you with this problem your facing.
I'm consuming your every drop and my lips aren't the only ones that's smacking.
The flavor is so light not pungent yet full,
Yet I'm tonguing like I'm digging,
In the crevices of your vessel forms a pool.
And slippery when wet is an understatement when I'm giving.
Early snacks are always followed,
And while you accidentally play with your food i stare,
Desert topped so delicately with cream gets swallowed.
And as you lay panting, gentle gestures with my fingers in your hair.
There is a part of me,
That I keep locked up and have no key,
At least, I say, one can not be found,
yet, here it comes flowing forth, like water from the ground,
Tears I feel weeping, like sap from my heart,
I don't know whether to scream or pull my self apart,
Feeling dizzy,
Feeling sick,
Hoping I can find my balance quick,
Set in motion,
These forces as strong as an ocean,
Out pours all my pent up emotion,
Spewing forth under no remorse of agony or rage,
Setting everything around me ablaze,
Its' destructive nature leaves an unhealing wound,
feeling as if my life was meant for such gloom,
I can't escape my memories, I can't escape their pain,
I plead for help yet my cries are only done in vain,
No on can hear my sorrow, my loss, my tortured soul,
Not even the pen from which my words flow.
Does it stir you,
a body bag ?
Journey of million years
stops here,
decoding the numbers.
A humming bird
inflight catches a dilemma
before the sun sets on the
whirring wings.
The moon will never be the same.
Hanging by a thread
a suicide bomber memorializes
the unhealing land.
Who will cry
when he is gone ?
Satish Verma
Ending of the thought
does not bring a lull.
It is a sequel beyond
my reach. An old extrication,
I dig for my roots.
The forgotten names,
the unhealing wounds of a doctrine,
a tiny memory of pulsating embryo,
not yet born !
Fear generates a kill. Ferocious movement
inside the cells slowly,
you become zero without a center.
The tangent skips
on your surface. Claustrophobia.
You start breaking the walls.
Fighting anxiety & shame
a timeless timber without a foliage.
My ignition point is hurt in
the new culture of game.
How we approach the road,
which smells the death,
blood or smoke?
The passion is a hurricane.
Uproots all the bones,
shatters all the roots.
A glory reckons after a while,
for the election of sorrow.
SATISH VERMA