Hurl the spear of grief
against the flayed sky
The depth of every betrayal
roots have taken hold in the mattress
- a clichéd fact
Too much pain and too much conflicts
strong emotional currents
The treadmills invisible source
filters through a stone wall
nauseating stench, putrefaction
- chlorophyll-deficient status
Humans sniveling complaints
Neither dusk nor dawn can delude me
Your mode of denial, determines my fate
brooding does not happen on its own
Absence of response is also an answer
but action eliminates doubt
Let the wind draw its final breath
- pack up your trash
Every great artist must be a little insane
Because nothing that vivid could come from an average mind
Nothing that twisted could spring to life
On canvas and not in the brain
The insanity of it all
The thoughts twisting in little spirals
Nagging, tugging at corners of the mind
That for most are empty corridors filled with cobwebs
Searching for a crack in the dam, seeking a way out
They hit the wall and back in again they turn
scoring invidious trenches deeper and deeper
Leaving damage in its wake
Maddening to not be understood
To be so clever that expressing yourself is so outside the realm of possibility
That you have to die to be known
Through the broken windows of your soul
Glimpses of what life is like inside your head
Not a portrait, never truly elucidated
A tortured, drunken poet,
Mad on life’s nauseating boredom
The fantasy of being known come to life on a page
But never real.
In a dark dot,
I, as a spot.
lie.
As tears I cry
all crouched,
and perched,
in the hollow suffocating,
fists clenching,
as the space around,
caves in, and walls surround
me with spikes, that inward poke,
and the voices that spoke
I heard loud and clear.
and I fear
the laughter
above the clatter
which is nauseating
and revolting,
as into the abyss I slip,
and in the mire dip,
screaming so loud,
but none in the crowd
hear me,
yet see
how I cringe and tremble in fear
as panic hits, I can hear
the deafening silence of the dot
as the spot
comes hurling at me,
driving me into the raging sea
that engulfs me!
And then the light’s beam
So freaking bright
that in my dream
I’m blinded by that light,
which splits the dot that held me tight
into a splintering ray
obliterating my day!
Copyright © 2021 by Crystal David John
F is my flavor as you feel me coming, I taste like garlic and gunpowder. nauseating you as I bubble in your throat louder and louder
I is for what i ignite, memories of spilled milk and tears, memories of being left behind over the years
G is the glimmer of joy I bring you, you dont want to like hurting others, but you do, this pain can’t be forgotten, if you suffer than they must too
H is for the hurt in their eyes as venom spills from your lips, you remember a time not to long ago when it was you with that ache, when it was you who was made stronger from the fact other wanted you to break
T is what I take, when I take everything around and tear it all down, till your left with nobody in your life except me, my coldness an invisible thorny crown you can’t see
Fight is for a never ending cycle. The hurt hurts and gets hurt. And the victim turn persecutors. I will never let you win. I will only leave you alone
intrusive elements enwrap me nauseating wholesomeness will you retrench my dreary blitheness contortion ?
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 6–12, 2026)
intrusive elements enwrap me
Nauseating wholesomeness
will you retrench my dreary bicoloured contortion ?
again and always
a compromise convincing
but
regretfully
nauseating
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 6–12, 2026)
when our skin touches
im left with diluted smells
like wearing your boyfriend's hoodie
only its not mine to have
These smells have become nauseating
reminding me im only useful for backseats
and undercover kisses
my body is craving closeness
but im only handed meaningless motions
and tinted glass laughs
blurring what they really want from me
Love is only a broken teenage dream
my skin isnt what it used to be
im left with marks
from those who never truly knew me
Its not mine
But I still choose to love like this
backseats have become a place where Im seen
in the same space just another girl
they're always going to replace
Its something to distract me
from the damaged parts of my body
they never choose to see
These models of worldly success
In the kingdom
Of the wandering tribe
A whole global country
Now seemingly does subscribe
Formed into their world of greed
Forced into a half living dead being
By witches of the Wall Street creed
With nauseating materialism agreeing
Creatures of the living dead
Of Emptiness, with no real net worth
Of Ostentation and mental dread
A curse upon all the Earth
And all things living on it.
.
Her face showed freshness of a fecund lea,
Inviting eyes lured me then to explore,
Her bosom conveyed warmth that was friendly,
Lighthouse-like beckoning to come ashore.
Each tiny cell of her anatomy,
Derided by the wise as mortal flesh,
And deemed Maya, if not an enemy,
Posed, why such rare beauty be scorched to ash.
Let all the wisdom warn of beauty’s blight,
I still in life’s splendid things would believe,
Let all keep philosophy’s vague delight,
I fall for beauty’s charm, let it deceive,
And love to kiss its lowly dust on death
To keep alive in loveliness my faith.
____________________
Sonnet | 01.04.2014, revised March 2025 |
Note: Beauty is only skin deep, and if one were to scrape a shade below (forget the sub atomic levels), the scene could be quite nauseating. Beware of beauty’s blight, old wisdom says. It is all illusive Maya. This sonnet nevertheless says: let me keep my illusion and faith in loveliness.
This cold scheduled grey life
Has me so on point and on task
The tunnel vision is nauseating
The horse blinders debilitating
Want for what, wish for who
An existence built to hypnotize
Time coerced me into being
Unapologetically institutionalized
Wandering the two in between the kingdoms
One side, quiet and bright, flagged the havens
The other, earthly world, noisy and light dim
Drifting up or down when the moody flow faint
To brightness fly and blurring dim fall
Somewhere belonging may lack for souls
Quiescent and chaos changed as tides floated
Uneasy and wobbly similar to traveling boats
Up or down, with straw sticks grasping
Steering wheel holding for the time clouds
Time goes likewise the seagulls chasing
From starting point to the place anchor
Heart awaits longly for people nauseating
While mind gonna sparks be star exciting
The nonstop negative news or publicities on Haiti
Hurt tremendously and disturbingly
The relentless or constant bashings of all Haitians
Twinge and twist my heart like cancer patients
On their death beds, who are resigned, hopeless
Penniless, helpless, and spiritless.
Haiti needs a mega break from all the powerful parasites
That are still exploiting our precious resources at countless sites
While concomitantly exploring and impoverishing our peasants
Our innocent siblings who perilously work for crumbs and cents.
It is time that all truths are spoken or be told
It is time that we unearth, unfurl or unfold
All vile plots so the world can witness the premeditated lies.
Papa Noël is a well designed invention in disguise
At Christmas time, the hurts are excruciating
And the misery is objectionable and nauseating.
Copyright © December, 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
It is addictive.
Used to it
like the wicked bitter pills
that one swallows to numb the pain,
to block the feelings.
Lethargic yet nerve-wracking;
A tightness in the chest that
never goes away.
Faint, throbbing, persistent.
It is inherent to me.
the salinity of an ocean of tears,
the chaos of a storm wrecked ship,
the thorns of a lonely cactus.
Never clears away by itself.
Haunting like monsters,
nauseating like rotten hopes,
Appalling like oblivion,
Repulsive like nightmares.
One drinks it,
Slowly.
Like the morning cup of coffee,
Bitter, gone cold.
Yet addictive.
Mine alone.
-Ree
You bombed, bombed
Now you airdrop aids
You killed, killed
God’s children
Pregnant moms
Innocent women
Poor toddlers
Weak boys and sick men
No reason
You poisoned water
You robbed, robbed
Now you want
To give sweet ice cream
To children
You are crazy
You are sick
How naughty
What a shame
How nauseating
The world is at war
This is sickening
Hypocrites
You are, yes you are
You bombed, bombed
You killed, killed
The world is at war
Humanitarian
Food, bombs and missiles.
Copyright © March 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Yup ... there's no question about it,
I'm talking about sex, and all the
Calamity and comedy that surrounds.
Yet I'm not sure if the destiny will
Defer to the clumsy, or if it will
Remain nerve-racking on all grounds.
Because seriously, it is by far the most
Common and popular topic, that virtually
Everyone is scared to death to talk about.
Starting with the basics, the birds & bees,
Before graduating to STD's, I often
Wonder if the birthrate is in doubt.
This nauseating nervousness stays with
Us always, from the first dance to the
Last nuptial that we profess.
So as long as those butterflies keep
Flittering, we might get lucky with a
Sexual encounter, I guess.
It seems ironic that something so natural,
Can bestow so much anxiety with the
Mere thought of its success.
While we fumble along, sometimes pulling
A loose foot out of our mouth, but who knows,
We've done more with less.
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