Dissected Poems | Examples

Lines of Erasure

They split the land, but not the pulse. 
Roots remember what maps forget. 
Every severed line still hums 
with breath, with blood, with return.

They drew the map with ash and absence— 
not to guide, but to erase. 
Districts split like broken ribs, 
each line a scalpel, 
each vote a ghost.

We watched the ink dry on democracy’s skin, 
while they called it strategy. 
But we know the truth: 
this is not representation. 
It is redaction.

They called it strategy, 
but we saw the autopsy. 
Each district dissected, 
each breath rerouted.
We do not consent to silence. 
We are the roots beneath the fracture, 
the pulse that refuses to be redacted. 
We rise, not from permission— 
but from memory.

Curriculum Vitae

They taught us to dissect frogs,
but not the feeling of being dissected.
We memorized the bones of empires,
but no one named the fracture in our own spines.

We wake up with hearts in our throats,
trap ourselves in flickering cages,
Pout like mannequins  in group shots.
We google "how to disappear"
between lectures on resilience.
We draft essays on survival ,
while planning exits.
We smile at teachers who praise
our punctuality while we
count pills under the desk.


The counselor called us in one by one,
handed us pamphlets
with smiling cartoon brains.
Just ticked boxes
and sent us back to class
with a sticker that said “brave.”
which curled by noon.

When the windows whispered
and the knives called us by name,
they called it depression.
It wasn't.
It was syllabus.
We were just doing the homework.

The autopsy of a black body

An autopsy of a black body
One who suffered greatly
The body pushed past its limits
To the point it had enough and quit

A scalpel to their chest
Slowly peeling the layers of flesh
Noticing the rot 
Hit by the stench of trauma

The body dissected 
The organs removed 
Leaving the body an empty shell 
Of a broken person
Beaten by an unjust system
There was no hope for the body to be saved 
It was always going to give away

The person that had owned the body stood no chance
From the trauma to the head 
Consumed by the complexities of PTSD
To the bruises on the legs
From a lifetime full of abuse 
Carrying a body hated by society

It was like a troubled home 
A place that was out of control
Where the quiet screams of abuse
Are trapped within the cracked walls
Bearing the weight of secrets untold

It was damaged beyond repair 
No amount of glue could fix the damage of what was done 
The body could heal 
But the trauma couldn't be undone 
The cause of death: racism
This is what happens when you live a life on the run from discrimination 
Beaten by the harsh reality of hatred 
Isolated by a world full of prejudice 
Living in an abyss of hopelessness

The Political Elite

A mouthful
of hate
A bullhorn
of lies
Dissected
infected
With terminal
pride
Conscripting
the fledgling
Embedded
in brine
Indicted 
convicted
True felons
— of time

(Dreamsleep: June, 2025)

Museum of my Mind

I would make a museum of my mind
Fill these musty halls with all my people
Every girl who has walked my corridors 
To write her piece and paste it on the walls. 

Every plaque together, a mosaic
Of all personas, memories, and thoughts 
Together an image, reflected back 
Informative of me, an auto-school.

Blowing out the dust of unused ballrooms
Broom cupboards and and the back stairs, each its own
Room for machinations, revelations, 
Fed by all those who reside within me

My lonely people, aimless wanderers
Floating through the corridors room by room 
Their homes are these clustered, open cloisters.
Endless is my palace of passages. 

I am dissected in a thousand cuts
Each slice a living, pulsating breather
Warm and soft against my cobblestone floors
Balance of life and rock, they people me.

Voices low and laughter cheerful, I hear
My population all internally
All beings that are me, graduated
Notches on a scale, all playing their part, 

Like cogs and wheels they move in tandem drifts
Here in this exhibit they gave me, of
Balustrades adorned and turrets revived 
I transformed: a museum of my mind.

Sins of My Father

I have often witnessed death
though not ever the last breath;

field mice frozen in a jar;
slaughtered lambs in abattoir,
dissected frogs in school labs,
cruel boiling of live crabs
for important luncheon meets.
Piglets torn from mother’s teats
roasted at a football game.
Hungry lions eat the lame
garden’s serpent kills the truth
mothers’s love that kills your youth;
little bug just stepped upon;
“don’t destroy my sweet salon.”

To embrace a death without;
that is just to be Boy Scout.
To embrace a death within;
to my father, was a sin.

The Cross

I feel dissected and mutilated. Strung up on a cross and paraded through endless eyes.

Purim Theorem!

Purim Theorem!

Rambam holds Hashem is math,
Hashem does not take a path,
Like “Squaring the Circle”,
Such is illogical,
Yet the Zohar differs on Hashem’s craft!

Witness the Aron anomaly,
Giving rise to a homily,
Finite length & width yet zero volume,
Boggling the mind, yielding it solemn,
Evoking Emunah more than normally!

Size yet no volume?
Anomaly! as in Shalom,
Moshe saw that the “Burning Bush”,
Was unconsumed, he didn’t silence: Hush!,
Risking ridicule, courage to be alone!

Moshe saw water & fire combine,
Hashem’s Shalom nonintuitively align,
Illogic surprise from mire,
Despair be gone!  Lost? A Divine sign!

Purim, 339 Before Common Era,
Hashem again was a true “Chevra”,
Upending Haman’s goose,
In a long necked noose,
Saving the Yidden from an evil schema!

Arrogance vanquished,
Anomaly? Yes by logic languished,
Expect the unsuspected,
Human reason dissected,
Headstand of man anguished!

“Shemayim’s” Burning Bush is a hymn,
Let the “Olam” Hear Him,
Again no novelty,
“Chiddush” renewal, an end to “Evilty!”
All Adds Up to Purim Theorem!

Healing

Feelings
Raw, cold, and numb
Exposed on a frigid slab
Dissected, mourned and then entombed
Healing

A Machine's Gaze

beneath the screen’s unwavering eye
it scans the words where truths may lie
each line dissected parsed and weighed
a judgment rendered coldly made

this poem is not yours it claims
patterns match familiar frames
even those penned in years before
ai knocked on the public’s door

it cannot see the midnight muse
the quiet hours you dared to use
nor hear the scratch of pen on page
long before machines could gauge

it brands as false what’s truly real
the heart the thought the human zeal
it cannot grasp the time or space
when words were shaped by hand with grace

a formula a rigid test
it cannot know a poet’s best
for sparks of art defy the lines
of data rules and coded signs

so let it judge let systems weigh
and claim your craft a copied play
but know the truth is in your hold
each line a gem of priceless gold

not every word by code is sown
some seeds were planted all your own
and though the tools may still misread
your voice is yours your soul the seed

The Cocky Boss

I work for a cocky boss
With whom I can never converse
He always has to have the last word
Everything you say to him appears absurd
He speaks like a judge in a courtroom
Your every word dissected and doomed
He walks aright and with a swagger
In his pocket a hidden dagger
Waiting to dissect the unsuspecting specimen
With cynicism he awaits his next big luncheon

Be your own Firefly

I can feel u sinking
Over thinking 
Thinking about drinking
Feeling hated
Colors faded
Whole worlds jaded
Fear of being rejected
Defeated, puzzle pieces all dissected
Stop, it's time to redirect it
Skies to the water, take a moment and reflect it
Remember your roots you aren't alone, we are all connected
Reignite the fire within, resurrect it
Your worth is priceless, don't neglect it
Destiny awaits for you to turn the page and select it

a day inside my brain

a day inside my mind

What to do? There is so much news
Trump, my mate, didn't do so well. he thought
 he could wing it
against a woman whose handlers had dissected
Trump's tendency to brag, beside we must not forget
my old mate is seventy-eight
I have posts in the messenger but can't get in the asks 
me for code words, they never asked before
 if they have, I have forgotten it all
mind at school, I was good at the multiplication table
but after that, numbers are enemies that cause me
trouble with the tax people
My wife had minor surgery today. I spent
 the  day at the hospital had lunch there,
 The hospital is next door to the car- a testing place where I have to bring my old car for testing 
once a year, if the vehicle fails
 it will be  a catastrophe if that is not enough,
 I have to renew 
my driving license, which we old people have to do 
every year to see if we can drive
I have to give the car to my mechanic to iron out the faults
then I have to see a doctor who will test my hearing 
and reactions to sudden happenings.
Most of all, I worry about my wife, sit watching
a TV romance, for once, she is silent

One Mere Step at a Time

When life's journey folds in on itself,
Becomes a jumble, in clattered confusion,
it's wise to hold back,
and stall the footfall.
To disassemble the journey and saga,
into it's component parts,
and lines in play.
To revert to time's tick tock routine,
taking one step, one mere step,
before every second one,
reflecting on each moment,
dissected, 
and stepped, 
upon.

Poetry Explored

No accident that the Bible has some of the greatest poetry every written -- for faith, God, cannot be expressed by mere means of clear, solid definition as a diamond of carbon in a laboratory chemically dissected and defined.  God is known by cadence, synonym inspired, manifesting from the heart of imagination.  Which is not to suggest, that God is not real, not truth -- it simply means, to my mind, that poetry is Love unconditional~ gateway, for literature's highest known form of expression.  Far surpassing  philosophy.  A way of understanding and approaching our divinity both sense-fully and spiritually.

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