from the conch
whispers come
dissect
distract
blow upon
scintilla branch to intrinsic thought
weighed down
consumed
overwrought
mattering - so magnified
that I can't turn away my eyes
reach for able hand to soothe
what dread could deed undo, disprove
kisses stolen
by long lost words
explored lactic fallacies
become absurd
til endings are not the body expired
but exposure of every cell and every wire
cathartic grip held in awe
control depletes as hem and haw
til sadly swings
and bridges to shame
call time
I must
on the lugubrious game
I catch my own eyes in the bathroom mirror
before I even turn the cold water on.
I watch every quiet, hopeful plan I made
get quietly picked apart and gone.
I wear this skin, I answer to my name,
I’m the author of every doubt I hide.
I pull down my own small victories
and stand my own worst foe, inside.
When 5 a.m. hits with its pale blue light
and promises a second chance to try,
I drag out old mistakes from years ago
just to give myself a reason why.
I tell myself I am not man enough,
that every step forward is a fake,
that the moment things get steep or real
I’ll bend beneath the weight and break.
I sit at my desk in the afternoon slump,
building a maze out of unread mail.
I lock the doors, throw away the keys,
and then wonder why I’m set to fail.
I dissect every single word I said,
turning harmless moments into debt.
I don't need anyone to tear me down,
I haven't even given myself a chance yet.
And yet I'm the one who holds the pen,
the one who keeps writing out the fear.
If I'm the architect of all this noise,
I'm the only one who can clear it from here.
Respect is not what you expect
It is the small things that we neglect that disrespect,
It is rewarding the effort of others to reduce neglect,
That leads to respect.
A back up plan earns respect,
To get the outcome we expect,
Requires words that sooth not excuse that cause us to reflect,
On knowledge of the meaning of respect.
If respect is important,
Then we will not neglect,
Things that show we care to the fullest extent,
And our actions will leave no doubt that we value respect,
Over regret and neglect.
Respect is not a thing to dissect,
But a thing of beauty on which we should take the time to reflect,
To understand how easy it is to lose it if we forget you in respect
And dot an I that shows we are intent on disrespect.
Which will lead to regret and neglect,
That we will be forever trying to dissect.
I chart her moves and tides,
Probability’s my only guide.
Every glance, her every sigh—
The script I know
Before she even tries.
She walks on chaos in heels,
A hurricane wrapped
In fake emotional feels.
She winks—I calculate—
She laughs—I hesitate—
She says "yes" and means "no,"
Points left when she oughta go.
Logic cracked like broken glass—
Built walls while she kicks my ass.
I wrote rules and drew the lines,
She paints outside them every time.
"Let’s talk"—I try to dissect—
She says nothing –So what’s next?"—
Tried chess moves every night,
She ate the pawns
And said "They tasted alright."
I’m stranded in her storm,
Out maneuvered
By her stupid form
She says "yes" and means "no,"
Points left when she oughta go.
Logic cracked like broken glass—
Built walls while she kicks my ass.
I solved for X but she’s a Y,
A question mark with laughing eyes.
She burns graphs, breaks my code—
Leaves me lost on this lonely road.
The moment your feet lose their grip
On the boulders which uproot life
Remember I'm only conversations away.
The back of your mind is my quartz-filled palace
Alone, with nobody else to critique
You are the canvas which I want to make perfect.
Harshly, I'm sure, but isn't it loving?
To push you until your fingers fracture
And leave you longing for recognition?
Anxiety is my name, but it sounds too formal
Just call me the footnote man of your thoughts
I'm here to dissect everything like a science project
Carress my chin whenever you feel you are lonely
Sure, it's your fault, but I'll keep you company
But here I am, machine of your success
Dissect Intelligence:
An Agency Of Intel...
Information Organized;
Mob Opinion-ation
If Con-formative!
Now Top It All
To Top It Off:
Waddle Confidently
And Utter Animal Sounds,
Like A Grunt And A Hoot
Of An Owl... Whoo! Whoo!
Or More Mature Waddling
Utterances Made Sure
By Sheer Shared Experiences...
Pattern Arrays...
***"Official!!!"***
Because I Said.
-Gray Squirrel
05-13-2026
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.
Please don’t read this
nor scan,
nor try to understand,
Or otherwise try
to take this
egg-shell instance
And dissect it into
a lesson plan
or mid-term exam.
It means more than that –
it’s egg-shell blue
hidden within a yew;
Safe unless blue-jay
finds a way
to peck its shell
Then, to our dismay
We find our plans
Are other than.
In the book called “life” each page reveals many twists and turns in the plot.
Reaching the age of wisdom and experience it is time to dissect paragraphs that reveal great joy, some sorrow and lessons learned.
Words in play bring back memories and excite the imagination to envision our distinct version of choices made, dialogue expressed and feelings displayed.
Characters come and go but some remain to influence the outcomes of scenarios in our lives and to direct our course for the grand epilogue in the final chapter.
As we close the binder, take off our glasses and reflect. May the storyline have been intriguing, suspensful, delightful and peppered with the unforseen.
A grand final acknowledgement to the author who lived the story through wide open eyes and revealed it with integrety and honesty
Q: When a woman is having a baby, what do you call the periods of time between labor contractions?
A: Pregnant pauses.
Q: What happens when a restaurant doesn't sell all of its "soup du jour"?
A: It goes on tomorrow's menu as "soup du yesterjour".
Q: What do you call a group of witches doing their own laundry?
A: A self-cleaning coven.
Q: What did the prostitute say to the sympathetic arresting female officer from Buenos Aires?
A: Don't cry for me, Sergeant Tina.
Q: What did the cannibal chief tell his people when they were defeated by another tribe?
A: If you can't eat 'em, join 'em.
Q: What did two gay knights tell King Arthur when he asked them if they were dating?
A: We''re not a couple, we're joust friends.
Q: What's the difference between a vase and a "vahze"?
A: The price.
Q: How can you tell if a politician is lying?
A: His lips are moving.
Q: How would Hollywood describe a remake of "Day of the Dead" set in old Tucson with a score and lyrics by Andrew Lloyd Webber?
A: A zombie western musical.
Q: What might be the motto of a cannibal police force?
A: "To dissect and serve".
A DREAM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A wisp of smoke, a phantom limb,
the dream dissolves, a sugar cube in rain.
Gone.
Morning light bleeds in,
erasing landscapes built of moon-dust.
A fiction, spun in the quiet dark.
But then, a shard remains.
A glint caught in the corner of your eye.
A swan's cry,
impossibly clear,
reverberates,
caught in the hollow of your chest.
It returns, unbidden, unwelcome,
a landscape
of tilted angles and knowing eyes.
You stand there, powerless,
caught in its gaze,
a stranger in a familiar place.
Inclined to wonder,
to dissect and trace,
the questions remain
bewilderment etched upon your face~
What did it mean?
What does it mean?
In a round-about, indirect
Not to dissect but inspect
Alternative means to deflect
From some singular aspect,
Of getting to a point or effect…
I need to be more direct.
Perhaps in wanting to understand
We must abandon wonder
Whether willingly for the sake of rigour and strength
Or unwillingly surrendering to the unexplained
In those bylanes in order to explain
We study, observe dissect
Practise reductionism to the last atom
After that when the head rises up again
Devoid of wonder, innocent lost
It sees natural vastness
Sigh, explains it as infinity
Perhaps an expression of its own exhaustion
Having played with the tiniest
It has lost the power to comprehend
The abundance of which is only a part
Self-Owned
Remember
the day
you became entitled
to yourself
No debts to pay
no last charade
the circle closed
— indwelt
(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
Reflection
Do we just recall
a memory
Or its cause
and its effect
Is consciousness
a chain of links
To front load
— or dissect
(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
Beatitude
The deeper you question
the more you constrain
God’s true existence
to never explain
Loosen your grip
on what holds you back
Surrender to glory
— Divinity’s tack
(1st Book of Prayers: May, 2025)
The Only Thing
Winning is always
undefeated
Score
to tell the tale
The victory plum
is zero sum
With glory
— to regale
(The New Room: May, 2025)
All Is Now
Unplugging tomorrow
recharging today
Conscripting the moment
— inside which we pray
(1st Book of Prayers: May, 2025)
you built a throne out of your own reflection, mistook your arrogance for eloquence,
try to resurrect what you helped desecrate,
your ego arrived before you did,
while your sense of self suffered
every silence was a threat.
you dissect with vocabulary
but cannot name your own loneliness.
you mistook softness
for submission,
pauses for praise.
and when I left,
you called it cowardice,
as if I hadn’t spent years
trying to decipher a man
who couldn’t even pronounce himself.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.