Long Disrepair Poems
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In this evening, I wear the perfect smile, and,
you’ll quake, in the wake of my guile
Cause I’m the best liar you’ll ever meet,
Because, In a way, I swear, I’d mean it
Not, to say that I believe it, but
The intention’s there all the same
This is my confession, my admission of guilt.
Because, it’s upon good intentions, that the road to hell is built
I’m always working toward my goals, and my dreams
But, in self observation, I'm beginning to question my means
As of late, been having a lot of trouble, maintaining the tension in the telegraph lines
And for that reason, the deserving will have no honorable mention
For these wires that run from ear to ear
have been in disrepair, for the best part of the last year
And, this is my apology, as well as, a desperate plea
Because, in reality, I’m in need, of someone that can save me,
Someone to be the monkey on my back
And one who possesses all that I lack
Someone who could, with words deify the drying of paint
And, since patience is a virtue, my girl will have to be a saint
Someone who bear with me, when I beg her to stay
and then push her away
Endearingly Awkward, is all I want to be
The martyr, with out the fee
But, the apprehension in me, doth decree
My title has the need for a higher degree
of precision, and simplicity
And, In fear’s wake, I’m brought to my knees
And, despite my hearts desperate plea,
I comply, and then cease to be,
Until, love breathes her life into me
I feel poison coursing through my logic
And capitulation that could be considered tragic
I’m growing weary, of this battle,
In which my ambitions are roped like cattle,
And slaughtered, just to end up filling the bowls and plates
Of, fear, my sworn enemy, the one I’ll never cease to hate
Considered jaded by some, and boring to most
I feel the part of the silhouette, or the ghost
But, in all honesty
I am, in a word, broken.
I don’t know, I cant even begin
To tell the difference between ecstasy and agony,
Or know what to say, when asked about my identity.
in the evening, behind this perfect smile, at my fork in the road,
contemplating left, or right, and carrying a hell of a load, .
I put faith in a coin toss,
Not knowing which led to love, and which to loss,
caught in clenched fist,
And slapped down on bare wrist,
for an instant, i wonder
if this Is reprobation?
Or some road, leading to my vindication?
The end of the Pier was shrouded in mist
the Shadows we cast were defining,
We plighted our troth, and then we kissed,
Neath a full orbed moon that was shining,
We walked hand in hand to the end of the pier,
The ghosts of our past reawakened our fear,
We had to be strong, for ourselves and each other,
Whether we could, we were about to discover.
The mist started lifting and in the moonlight
a blanket of bats had just taken flight,
then in a moment the bats were not there,
they had completely dissipated into thin air.
We both had worked on the Pier in the past,
It had long since closed, when we were there last,
Stoker wrote, Whitby, was were the vampires came,
But this abandoned pier received them just the same.
As we approached the door, that led into the pier,
From the frightened flight of bats, one still was here,
A sudden metamorphosis, took place within the frame,
And a vampire stood before us, I knew him, and his name.
Vladimir, I said to him, I once fought by your side,
I am your nemesis and fate, from me you cannot hide,
For I am here, to stop your cheer, and the evil that is you.
he gave me quite an evil look, deciding what to do.
I shined my torch upon his face,
Remembering how we loved this place,
The fair was now in disrepair,
But seeing Vladimir, we did not care,
The place had always been such fun,
especially when blessed by a warm summer sun,
Vladimir was an amusement, placed within the fair,
whose main role it was, to frighten and to scare,
The pier had no power, so we could not turn him on,
But the memory of what happened, has certainly not gone,
To animate the mannequin, required a coin to go,
Then Vladimir would start, his ghoulish vampire show.
He would give an evil cackling laugh, that shred your nerves apart,
He certainly was quite frightening, and not for the faint of heart.
I suppose it was a funny place for us to reminisce,
But when in love there are memories, you do not want to miss.
I think we now are over, the need to see the pier,
Generally, we remember it, over a glass of beer,
I suppose we might go back one day and have a laugh at Vlad,
Although the old Piers crumbling, it’s really rather sad.
She gazed at the looking glass, but the mirror refused to grant her a preview of what might happen, a clear picture of where she had been and if she existed at all, the spectre of the moment seemed to be disguised from inspection. Coming to terms with having absorbed and condensed too many of society’s norms and demands had seemingly been her duty and the prism of requests on her image of beauty had failed her inner Self. She drooled onto the spitting image of nothingness and the slobber ran down to the frame that upheld phlegm and contempt before it trickled down onto the baseless floor founded on hardcore delusion. Diet pills and dark shades had not relieved her from a succession of errors of reason and emotion and when she had blindfolded herself, the blinkers tore deep into her misrepresentation of surrender and cosmetic denial.
scanned in revulsion
vacant echoes burst the sight –
shards of glass splintered
So many fragments pierced into her eyes, that dry tears covered the pulverized viewing and heart-blood sprayed all over her soul. A point of no return, because if she failed to stem the flow and bandage the wounds, gangrene would set it soon and salving the lacerations would only speed up infection and purulent grime. The wall in front of her blurred out of proportion and there was nothing she could do about it other than retrieving bristles and paint from the storeroom and gloss over the shiny remnants of disrepair. And therefore, she entered into a journey of the unknown, drew rose petals and thorns onto broken canvas. Before she knew it, she decoupaged disintegration and fractures, glued a mosaic of imagination to mirror what should have been there in the first place. Sweat dripped from her forehead and smudged aquarelle shades which reassembled self-worth and confronted demons and abuse. An inner voice shouted, ‘all you need is a mantra to caption the artwork which you truly are.’ That is when she wrote her first poem and became free of doubts, oppression and cynical critique.
blame discredit reproach
failed to appease me in vain –
reflections can change
26th March 2021
I have nothing against the Cinderellas
of successful society.
Cinderella finds her opportunity for freedom
for love, hopefully,
goes for it,
and it works out for her
and all the Prince Charmings,
wherever they are hiding from my life.
Anyway, all good news
as far as this story goes.
But,
the plight of Ugly StepSisters and Brothers
deserves more compassionate empathy.
True,
they borrow too heavily from Evil StepMother's playbook,
her monocultural empty-empire building manual
"How to compete for passion and pleasure
natural wealth
without sufficient impassioned
spiritual health"
Still,
StepMom didn't write this manual alone.
This scripture is as old as lack of requited love
our severed selves.
And,
what are the karmic outcomes for these Sisters,
lacking grace
to invite Cinderellas to share their space?
A decade
a year
a month
a day,
an hour,
a minute,
a moment devoid of choosing integrity's warm possibility,
humor facing absurd lust for monolithic power,
blind hope to control healthy life
at least spirited enough to dull awareness
of inevitable natural dying alone,
results in living too much lonely
consuming absence of full loving life,
producing integrity of compassioned pleasure
Disassociated disrepair
eats and addicts acids of empire-defensive despair
until nutrients of isolation mature
into toxic self-disserving Evil StepSpinsters
and bully UnBrothers
Monsters spinning tragic runaway addictions
breeding chaotic anger,
fear of our darkness, our mortal trauma terror,
our lack and misery and loss,
hating our own unredemptive suffering.
Ugly StepSisters are stuck
in silos of their own discontent
echoing Evil StepMother's voice
foolishly demanding patriarchal satisfaction
with a closed RightHand dominant fist
when grace is hers and his to choose
by merely opening Her heart
to radically compassionate
co-empathic curiosity
and win/win pleasures
of unconditional warm hospitality
for all our Cinderellas,
Prince Charmings,
more oppositionally defiant StepSisters
and homophobic UnBrothers.
The Station was littered and in disrepair,
'Out Of Order' signs bore witness.
Discarded chewing gum and empty bottles,
and the smells emanating from untended
trash baskets... and in the midst
of all this dislocation there he was,
huddled in his wheelchair,
his tray of trinkets proudly perched
on a cardboard box, a makeshift table.
Always cheerful, greeting commuters
as they hurried past, but they never returned
the smile forever gracing his weathered face.
One day I stopped to say hello.
His eyes brightened as he said
"Good day to you, good sir!"
Can I interest you in any of my treasures?"
I noticed he was shoeless, sockless,
and made a mental note.
"Right now I have to catch a train,
but I'll return when I have more time,
you have my word."
"I'll be here, this is my world, you'll
always be most welcome!" he explained,
as I disappeared into the teeming crowd.
Foregoing my schedule I returned the next day,
anxious to peruse his wares, and continue
our conversation. It turned out he was a Veteran
who'd fallen on hard times. I sat and listened
while he told me his story. A man displaced
by a society who would forever be in his debt.
"I'll be right back," I said. I had a plan.
Returning from the store, armed with sneakers,
socks and a sponge, I cleaned his feet,
pulled on his socks and laced up his
brand new Nikes. He was overwhelmed,
and by way of payment gave me a pendant
bearing the inscription, 'Semper Fi.'
"This will bring you good fortune, my friend,
wear it, and your heart will be free of strife,
and your days will be filled with sunshine!
Remember me and treasure it, that is all I ask."
Next day, as I was crossing the concourse,
I saw he was no longer at his station,
my friend, his wheelchair, and his tray of trinkets
all were gone. I hoped that where he went
he was cared for and comforted, and if he had shuffled
off this mortal coil that he was in the arms of God.
Was he seen by anyone else but me?
I believed with all my heart he was an Angel.
The Station was littered and in disrepair,
'Out Of Order' signs bore witness.
Discarded chewing gum and empty bottles,
and the smells emanating from unemptied
trash baskets... and in the midst
of all this dislocation there he was,
huddled in his wheelchair,
his tray of trinkets proudly perched
on a cardboard box, a makeshift table.
Always cheerful, greeting commuters
as they hurried past, but they never returned
the smile forever gracing his weathered face.
One day I stopped to say hello.
His eyes brightened as he said
"Good day to you, good sir!"
Can I interest you in any of my treasures?"
I noticed he was shoeless, sockless,
and made a mental note.
"Right now I have to catch a train,
but I'll return when I have more time,
you have my word."
"I'll be here, this is my world, you'll
always be most welcome!" he explained,
as I disappeared into the teeming crowd.
Foregoing my schedule I returned the next day,
anxious to peruse his wares, and continue
our conversation. It turned out he was a Vet
who'd fallen on hard times. I sat and listened
while he told me his story. A man displaced
by a society who would forever be in his debt.
"I'll be right back," I said. I had a plan.
Returning from the store, armed with sneakers,
socks and a sponge, I cleaned his feet,
pulled on his socks and laced up his
brand new Nikes. He was overwhelmed,
and by way of payment gave me a pendant
bearing the inscription, 'Semper Fi.'
"This will bring you good fortune, my friend,
wear it, and your heart will be free of strife,
and your days will be filled with sunshine!
Remember me and treasure it, that is all I ask."
Next day, as I was crossing the concourse,
I saw he was no longer at his station,
my friend, his wheelchair, and his tray of trinkets
all were gone. I hoped that where he went
he was cared for and comforted, and if he had shuffled
off this mortal coil that he was in the arms of God.
Was he seen by anyone but me?
I believed with all my heart he was an Angel...
The Station was littered and in disrepair,
'Out Of Order' signs bore witness.
Discarded chewing gum and empty bottles,
and the smells emanating from unemptied
trash baskets... and in the midst
of all this dislocation there he was,
huddled in his wheelchair,
his tray of trinkets proudly perched
on a cardboard box, a makeshift table.
Always cheerful, greeting commuters
as they hurried past, but they never returned
the smile forever gracing his weathered face.
One day I stopped to say hello.
His eyes brightened as he said
"Good day to you, good sir!"
Can I interest you in any of my treasures?"
I noticed he was shoeless, sockless,
and made a mental note.
"Right now I have to catch a train,
but I'll return when I have more time,
you have my word."
"I'll be here, this is my world, you'll
always be most welcome!" he explained,
as I disappeared into the teeming crowd.
Foregoing my schedule I returned the next day,
anxious to peruse his wares, and continue
our conversation. It turned out he was a Vet
who'd fallen on hard times. I sat and listened
while he told me his story. A man displaced
by a society who would forever be in his debt.
"I'll be right back," I said. I had a plan.
Returning from the store, armed with sneakers,
socks and a sponge, I cleaned his feet,
pulled on his socks and laced up his
brand new Nikes. He was overwhelmed,
and by way of payment gave me a pendant
bearing the inscription, 'Semper Fi.'
"This will bring you good fortune, my friend,
wear it, and your heart will be free of strife,
and your days will be filled with sunshine!
Remember me and treasure it, that is all I ask."
Next day, as I was crossing the concourse,
I saw he was no longer at his station,
my friend, his wheelchair, and his tray of trinkets
all were gone. I hoped that where he went
he was cared for and comforted, and if he had shuffled
off this mortal coil that he was in the arms of God.
Was he seen by anyone but me?
I believed with all my heart he was an Angel...
The Path To Least Resistance -
By: Sue S. Side
Amp pull ease just sparked insight,
I suddenly became aware,
(actually self actualization
came ohm to roost - dare
ring with mighty stir since this
Earthling orbited thru the atmosphere
back in time many a passing,
quickening, and rip snorting year),
how my current psychological,
neurological, and emotional despair,
sans crafted - plane vanilla
existential plight grounded, nixed,
and shorted former spunky,
quirky, and goofy boyish air
snuffed out, hopscotched
(along buttery, bow jangly rocky
unlevel road i.e. skeletal derriere)
extinguished courtesy nihilistic fanfare
with counterproductive antiwelfare
of self, when just a tendershoot, nothing
boot bag of unlovely bones when bare
grim reaper das scythe
did to hunker down
specifically anorexia attired
with trademark black hoodie wear
firmly entrenched, would
not budge, clear
out, nor disappear
matter of fact arrogant behavior
cannibalistic ornery rode
roughshod, and cavalier
dauntless demeanor debonaire
leaving body electric
in utmost disrepair,
lo parents trumpeted
state of emergency
and sought out consigliere
one Doctor Ted Goldberg care
fully applied his deft, heft,
whence nervosa finally left
after quite long stretch of time
not without a fight,
and permanently sear
my esprit de corp
undermining foursquare - buzzfeeding
every epidermal micro hectare
pot tent lee loosed pendulum
within pit of mine being, a nightmare
minimally livingsocial, linkedin
to tomb ma birth family prepare
ring to die just on verge of puberty
analogous to bot sized
wrecking ball lob
bing within me tummy scare
ring the Bejesus
from those who begat me
nonetheless felt immense care
and concern helpless, and lacked app
nowadays accessible within sphere,
viz zitting world wide web,
now holed up in mancave sitting here
reflecting how I sabotaged
vitality, virility and vim stunting
maturation across vast swath of yesteryear!
Union Station was littered and in disrepair, 'Out Of Order' signs bore witness. Discarded chewing gum and empty bottles, and the smells emanating from unemptied trash baskets... and in the midst of all this dislocation there he was...
huddled in his wheelchair, his tray of trinkets proudly perched on a cardboard box, a makeshift table. Always cheerful, greeting commuters as they hurried past, but they never returned the smile forever gracing his weathered face. One day I stopped to say hello. His eyes brightened as he said,
"Good day to you, good sir!" Can I interest you in any of my treasures?"
I noticed he was shoeless, sockless, and made a mental note.
"Right now I have to catch a train,
but I'll return when I have more time,
you have my word."
"I'll be here, this is my world, you'll
always be most welcome!" he explained,
and I disappeared into the teeming crowd. Foregoing my schedule I returned the next day, anxious to peruse his wares, and continue our conversation. It turned out he was a Vet who'd fallen on hard times. I sat and listened while he told me his story. A man displaced by a society who would forever be in his debt. "I'll be right back," I said. I had a plan. Returning from the store, armed with sneakers, socks and a sponge, I cleaned his feet, pulled on his socks and laced up his brand new Nikes. He was overwhelmed, and by way of payment gave me a pendant bearing the inscription, 'Semper Fi.'
"This will bring you good fortune, my friend,
wear it, and your heart will be free of strife,
and your days will be filled with sunshine!
Remember me and treasure it, that is all I ask."
Next day, as I was crossing the concourse, I saw he was no longer at his station,
my friend, his wheelchair, and his tray of trinkets all were gone. I hoped that where he went he was cared for and comforted, and if he had shuffled off this mortal coil that he was in the arms of God.
Was he seen by anyone but me?
I believed with all my heart he was an Angel...
Meanwhile at the Temple of Doom,
the hearts of the "resistance",
are burning everence
in "Human Resonance Frequency",
somewhat
resonating resonance residence,
but not enough- igniting our own severance.
So in the depths of our longest night,
where thespian shadows cloak the moon,
I wander through corridors of my visible mind,
seeking riddles to confounded words,
towards that which will catharsis bloom
if I shut my eyes just right.
Within the untamed wild,
"Sad Wings of Destiny"
where emotions run deep,
in a time capsuled sarcophany.
I paint pictures with my scrabble pen,
hoping beauty jar- sealed lid-
canopic o-o parts will forever keep hid, till eden.
From the Alien characters deodorized
from creatic period malignancy
deed.
The New Age of Aquarius did us no favors
but of bearing their bitter wormwood waters.
Their pact in the Vesicle of Pisces.
The Sylphstream
painting hues of our desalination of populace.
But amidst the melanfolly,
there lies a glimmer of light,
a flicker of hope in the darkness,
that fuels the foliage
of heart with it's beam,
like a hope that spreads majestic wings,
a tapestry of righteousness,
garden of cornucopia- unity brings.
But fragile petals float on your velvet breeze,
revealing secrets
not lost in the minotauric memory.
A fairytale, like "Beauty and the Beast".
Sunset blueprints a citrine caress
of stalwart things,
to my state of disrepair,
as the "mandrake screams".
For in the little bands of unity we create,
in amethyst spaces of cultivate races
and unrecognized homeless faces.
We become cutlets on a plate-
presenting ourself naked oblate,
where emotions find their place to address their undressing Sunday best of show time to
~Contemplate~
When the word flows freely,
like blood leading to the heart
for prayer's power lies in its ability,
to touch us apart from the World,
but not to forget the least of them in part or participle.