A poem that talks about YOURSELF

My mask has fallen
Must I be so open
To gain your audience?
Do I really have to
Lower my defences like this?
My words humane and blistered of weakness
to even be heard?
Is it really worth the sacrifice
Of whatever fragments of this mask
I have left?
I could try... But is the game worth the trouble?
Lace together some words...
That hold whatever meaning...
Better than the shit I used to write
Pumping out some intellectual shit
Time and again
No style... No attitude
No - “real umpfh.”
All in all – Cliché after cliché
Of an entire passage!
I mean what the fuck was I doing?
Calling that trifled shit poetry?
Just words on a fucking screen.
Sticking out like some fucking eye-sore.
Here’s a fucking shock though
I like what i’m writing
It makes me FEEL good.
It’s unknown to me now
It’s the unknown that’s comforting
Yeah... this works.
All it takes is some fucking honesty
To be heard.
My honest tone is far from forced
It's like a load off my mind
The words just flow
When I’m not drawing my muses
From a stream of pretentious shit
This stream is clean – it’s fucking purified
Endless!!!
Maybe this is the true way of the word-smith
A bit of fucking honesty?
Rather than the shit I was coming up with
Fucking corpses?
Gah!
Experiences conjured through fake-ass fantasises
Of what my ego makes up
Some cowardly projections
A blur of fantasy and reality
To mask my insecurities
I’m already down
Why am I the one that’s kicking?
Shit...
You know what I’ve learnt
in the deepest depths of poetry?
I’ve shown more of myself through my fake-ass ego
Than any amount of honesty ever could
My niche?
Let’s be honest
It was my personal cliché.
You know what’s the worst part?
That pathetic fucking niche / cliché shit
Didn’t even make sense
No – It’s probably this
Something even worse
Knowing you’re not that ego anymore
And being yourself
Without a single fuck that knows it.
No, that’s wrong
The master of the mountains as seen it
And an observant G I took for granted
Those I held close here
Never knew me
An appreciator of my poetry
I didn’t even introduce myself too
Saw right through me
And set his eyes on my potential
Not that it matters... we both know it’s there
It’s a sure easy course
expressing whatever comes to mind
Try to sift through this shit.
And thank you, for your harsh standard.
For the hostility to my pretence
Maybe this...
Is the way of the wordsmith?
Constructing verses as I go along?
Not even trying to be poetic
With forced imagery and personification?
Or throwing in some bullshit twists
And worse of fucking all
Is rhyme.
Fuck, do I hate rhyming
More than anything...
Even when I was some poser
Rhyming my “intellectual” shit.
I always hated to rhyme
Thinking it would make me famous
Yeah fucking right.
It's like a swift kick to the nuts
Krav Maga style
When you realise
You were never a writer – nor a fucking poet
I was just some whore
That wrote poetry like some fake ass little bitch
Yeah, I admit it.
You and I both know
That it feels so much better
To admit that
What do I feel now?
It’s that mask I’ve taped around my skull
Fading away...
It’s even given me some room to breathe.
And not only that – I feel empowered!
I’ve become the writer
“That’ll die like a man”
You could say that...
I went “for a run”
And blew away
“The whores of rhyming poetry”
Quality not quantity – It’s the content that counts
Fuck what you consider a well-sized poem.
Whether it be large or be small
Write to appease the mind.
Be real - upfront and personal
My poetry as it is today
Comes from a broken man
“My name’s Evan Sarov”
And my heart plays “peek a boo”.
I used to know why I wrote
Now I have no fucking clue
Why am I even writing this poem?
Don’t ask me.
Total fucking confusion
Let me tell you something
I am a total fucking hypocrite
I may be the “fist and awe”
And sure, I’m martial-minded
I’ll tell you something I’m not?
A poet
Lies do not fit me
Even to myself
The truth must break free
Ray had it right
“Truth is for assholes
Feed me your lies”
Was it, “slowly”?
Maybe this...
Is the way
Of the wordsmith?
We all know it’s not for me to say
No matter how hard I wish it was.
I’ve shattered my “ego”
It’s come to this
Am I good enough
For the rope team?
My brother, he reads this now
Knows I’m ready, this time around.
Don’t toss me a bone
Give me a rope.
Standing together
We both know
It’s working.
We will master this mountain
In the Deep Underground
Of poetry.

Loose Ends / The Road
 
A looseleaf of loose ends, tethering poems
A few reasons you left together alone
And whether I've grown depends on the evidence shown
Or the reverence of better friends who'd set it in stone..
Old flames and venomous thoughts
Cold veins and treacherous loss
Envious of the emptiness, growth-pained reckoner scoffs..
No shame, no blame, so strange the texture is off..
I don't feel the same anymore..
Claim denial, threatening violence
Hollow and vile, heckling tyrant
Feign a smile for deafening silence
Followed for miles by beckoning sirens
And I don't think it's an ambulance..
Meander through the noise in my head
These answers, few, and choices have fled..
Powerless and out of control
Countless, insurmountable souls
Cowered to a mountain of tolls
And gave up on the voices ahead...
 
 
Even though it's taken it's toll, keep focused, stay on the road
Keep going, stay in control, try to keep from swerving out of it
The noises in my head are getting louder, turn it down a bit..
Screw it, turn the music up; medicate and loosen up
Meditate and use it, plus, in truth, I love the sound of it..
Veins full of venom, my injustice grew from the paper
Once what was destructive, now productive use of my anger..
Trust was corrupted, and such is proof of the danger
Once love is a substance, what comforts you is a razor..
Cut back on the poisons that keep threatening your sanity
Run ragged by choices in this menacing calamity..
Brace for the reckoning, every second is damaging
Embrace all that's vacant, that's all you take from it, vanity
Some hollow existence.. Follow the resistance
And break the chains you wallow in to swallow up the distance
Evolution of a coup.. Groups that grew apart
Proof is a best-kept illusion, revolution's in the art
And that's not a revolution, it's true.. But it's a start..
 
Copyright © 2012 Travis J Gibbs, The Ant1-Her0 Project

Should Have Beens -

"People see me as a challenge to their balance."

Should have been -
street preacher screams
of a neon Rasputin
bible thumping your pants down.
Because we all know
the under wearings
can be divine.

Before graced skin smooths, sludge scrawls like a rash. We all hope it's not noticeable, or better yet poetry scratching
at something more tingling than pity.

Should have been -
the distorted decisions
of her own rapist, prepped
in claiming cleansers
like Mengele's operating table
disinfected in the mood
of many sides/cides.

Thoughts can be an un-emaculate lawn. To be the sharpest grave digger, cut through the wonder of the Gympson dirt nap. Put down the shovel, and stop digging your own ending.

Should have been -
the perverse pleas
of that locked child, a Lolita
with sutures, unlaced, and rotting
girlishly fibbing " I trust "
in restraints of an iron casket.

There is a release, a peace of mind not found in the sound of bereaved crying, never bound to that exquisite dying hush
of vulgar selfs. The service cost, who will pay it for you?

Should have been -
the manicured fingertips
of murdering dreams.
It seems only Enron
in the scheme of things
that we would snatch our stash
tipping the cheap glittering shine
of a twenty dollar hooker's hand job.

There is a wearing well about the seams of this garment when you understand. Wefts in the weave are on the button, often buried in chests flashing back, so you might throw away shrouds of breezy thread bare embroideries.

Should have been -
pretentious eulogies giving
death the animation it lacks;
A stiff Snow White blowing it all.
It's quite easy to memorialize the worms
with red delicious lips.

But what of those rocks bathed by riverbanks in flood seasons,
embedded with what lies beneath, yet keeping the bacteria at bay?

Love is not ever, some coveted
two coins for the boatman
but stones affectionately placed  
with remembrance in pockets
of a once left behind coat

now wet, and heavy with our small cells of life.


" I must be one of the wonders, God's own creation. "

quotes from " Wonder " by Natalie Merchant

rayheinrich said:

       


               < jesus gives me a hard-on >
     
                     fixed up there
                      on her nails
               (as i dream she becomes you)

                          me
                     (and my hammer)

                       sculpting

                       not around
                       but through
     
                         - - -



I have read this three times.
And I am still enjoying it.

This is great!

Welcome

My soul bought a ticket.

At a bargain basement price.

Destination: Anywhere.

When it landed in the airport of my mind,

And went through customs.

My soul became a little worried.

The cocaine it had hidden away.

Was found.

And the customs officials,

Asked my soul if he would like some.

My soul looked into their eyes,

And said:

“What land of corruption is this?”

Customs,

To my soul,

Replied:

“Welcome to earth. Where you're exploited so someone else can have more than you.

You will become a part of the masses

Told that you need what you want

Commanded that what you don't care for you must love and worship.

While the one who demands you work harder and tells you how weak and pathetic you are

Sits there and judges you.

The one with the money is free to exploit you on earth.

The 'they' who have the money will sit on boats.

That's why we're snorting your cocaine,

To take the exploitation.

We are corrupt because our leaders are corrupt.

Exploit, and be exploited.

So, snort your cocaine with us.

Because you'll be arrested for enjoying life.

When you should be exploited.”

My soul sighed,

And ran its hand over its chin.

“But what if I want to live?”

My soul asked the customs at the gate.

“This is earth, you are here to work.

Not to live.”

Sum Of My Parts

Who am I?
An everchanging answer
I am confused on this point

These are the parts of my equation

I am a prototypical Peter Pan
Ever the six year old
Frozen in time by the death
Of a loving mother

I am an Edgar Allen Poe subject
Unable to shake the pall of doom

I am the second grade Don Juan
Wooing his young Andrea

I am the boy in the attic
Making love to a blue-green vibrator
Finding joy and peace in the sensation

I am the fifteen year old dishwasher
Yearning for the touch of a particular cocktail waitress
Taught to man-up by a tough, rough-housing busboy

I am the singer
A constant stream of sweet, consoling music
Keeping me sane and loved

I am the lover of nature
Hidden deep in a forest of mighty redwoods

I am the devoted friend
Thinking no one could ever hate me

I am the frustrated athlete
Still imagining a Super Bowl, World Cup, Olympic Gold
Win in my future

I am a couch potato
Obsessed with English detective mysteries

I am a most unlikely computer geek
But aren’t we all these days

I am the simple reality of life
Learned by a stay in Spain

I am the straight one
Singing in the opera chorus

I am the devoted spouse
Proud father
Dedicated employee, unemployed
Every-Sunday church goer

I’ve clearly revealed too much
As is my wont
Simply stated
I am a poet

Written By Lerdgoin[/b]

Im not who people think im a secret
that cannot  show,
Cos whats inside is painfull and my
feelings you cant know,
No questions id have to answer no
efforts no one can fake,
No telling me this aint depression when
for me its so hard to take,
Im not who people think im now a mess
behind a show,
With the daily fight of holding things
back so you dont know,
I barely have a person thats willing to
help me,
im making an issue of nothing an you
say its how iv come to be,
Im not who people think but a time
bomb soon to blow,
How much longer can i take the feelin
of been so down and low,
I dont have many ppl just me on a
lonely rail,
Not many try with efforts cos they no
they start to fail,
Just distant mouthy family that
reversed then could help me,
And show me love exists and theres a
happier way to be,
My ways have lost my friend the one
who got me through,
To the rut of an awkward friendship
now i cant come talk to you,
Iv learned the pain off lonely at least in
my own way,
We all feel things little different i just
need some ones help today,
Il never be what you think now this
once good heart is dead,
Youv no right to judge a soul making
them hide whats in there head.

My mind


You know the scene..
Driving through the gates
At the city dump.
A messy array of.. stuff
Pristine filth against
Skies of deepest emerald blue,
And azure.
Traverse one heep to see another.
Vision obscured
By sight unseen.
As far as the eyes can see.
Hills upon hills Upon heeps,
Of the garbage man's
Keepsakes...

Single armed, headless dolls
Once intact,
And adored,
And idolized as a young child's
Bestest friend...

A sofa...
Torn and tattered.
One that once sat,
Brand new and beautiful
In a newlywed couple's
Sitting room
Until the day that their boisterous
Labrador
Discovered that it tasted
Better than it looked...

An old refrigerator that once housed a young
Entrepreneur's
Money making creation
Of a special cupcake
That inspired a
Multi-million dollar bakery.

Mile after mile
Of millions of tons
Of billions of pieces of once sentimental crap..

Each piece representing
A single thought
That compiles
Within this busy mind of mine..

Stress induces
A quagmire of thoughts
That blinds me to the things
Most important to me,
Which manifests more stress...

Like sitting cozy
In a barber's chair
Between two mirrors
Staring into infinity
Personified by this "catch 22"

Rock and a hard place?
More like,
Between a mountain and hardened,
Reinforced steel.
The conundrum of an
"Attention deficit"
   .....Of frustration...
A disorder believed by some,
Fictitious,
Known by me to be a pain in the ass,
And painfully legitimate...
Legitimate enough that,
In hindsight,
This man,
Your "humble narrator" sees
The repercussions of his
Split second decisions
Reflected in the tears,
Streaming fluid in a tiny
Salty riverbed upon
Her beautifully angelic,
Deeply hurt face.

For, every single drop
Of liquid emotion
Secreted from my lover's
Beautiful brown,
Windows to her soul,
I feel the sharpest of pain
Deep within my heart.
Doubly so when in painful realization
Of my faults
Which brought on  such a release
Of emotion.
It husts so bad
That I scream to the heavens
For the solace found in
Sound mind...

And,
As the unrelenting
"billion mosquito swarm"
Of thoughts
Bombards and molests
My non-tranquil mind,
The solace I yearn,
Beg for
And need,
Never comes.

Stuck in a drowning pool of thought,
Lips barely breach the surface
Trying unsuccessfully
To draw in the sweetest
Oxygen of relief.
I fear that another miniscule,
Fraction of an inch,
Deeper,
And I will pull
A lung full of liquid thought,
And drown.

And,
As I struggle to remain afloat,
Liquid thought infiltrates
First my mouth,
And then my nostrils.
And as I hold my breath,
And...
With every lashing of my arms,
And my legs to remain above,
I feel myself sinking,
Deeper...
And deeper...
Dizzy, and getting moreso,
The lack of oxygen "sanity"
My lungs release
Their final gasp,
And deep,
And swift,
I inhale my last.

Right as I feel
The searing "electric heat" pain
Of liquid unrest
Filling my lungs,
My mind thinks it's last,
And I feel my soul departing
From it's earthly tomb,
The mind "non-tranquil's"
Final thoughts,
Are too cluttered to discern...

Deep within a distraught
Busy mind
This man, knows not
What to feel.

Inside my skin,
I feel like a man
About to bust at the seams
For,
I know what I need,
Lacking severely
The ability to achieve my goals.

A tranquil mind...
Release from a prison cell
With bars of non-stop...
Thought....

Inprisoned,
This poet takes form,
To write of his Queen,
And insanity,
In a desperate attempt
To keep his sanity?

"Tune in for the new episode of...
A mad man's writes"
Brought to you by 'Ritalin Vonder Bread'
Now in H.D."

Angel with wings torn and tattered
crystal blue eyes supposedly like an ocean
a window to her soul
her dark, tormented, bullied soul

Loved to sing and owned the stage
the spotlight longed for her presence
quiet yet intriguingly charming
smart but still surprisingly modest

One day they'll see her,
a late-bloomer, turn into a rose
small and thin and fragile
delicate beauty easily offended

She cared too much about what they said
tried everything to please everyone
and blamed herself for never measuring up
when  their standards were impossible

Painted nails and fashion sense
soft brown hair with a hint of red
porcelain complexion but with freckles
how she hated her freckles

They called her four-eyes
bad vision ran in the family
cried herself to sleep nightly
tears were her lullaby

now she writes her feelings in songs
sings with emotion and hope
hoping one day to prove them all wrong

Some assembly


I'm placid.
Flaccid.
Passive.
Mix a base with acid.
You get me. The right now version.
I also come with irrational
And overboard.
I come with "people don't like you because insert reason."
I come with ignored.
I come with trying too hard.
I come with bored.
Average.
Hassle.
Baggage.
Fragile. Handle with care.
Handle.
Don't touch me.
I come with
Get off me.
I come with, I need some time to think.
I come with I wish I knew what to say.
I come with a ship
I came here to sink.
Some assembly required.

Louder than spoken words

I am silently loud
without speaking
I can tell a story
through tortured eyes

I am standing alone
in a crowd of thousands
seeing Elysian fields
as I breath in the concrete jungle

I am a smile without laughter
I am a dream without slumber
I am like the whitewashed wall
loudly seen without being heard.