Run On Automatic
Mostly lots of action in my head, ideas fighting for
priority, a book to read, plans for borderline crime
or at least relatively interesting things – as empty
as a sieve today - all thoughts fall into a myriad
miniature black holes in my mind, nothing sticks
Nothing has meaning, annoying and boring, must
be the result of something I have eaten, the curry
last night, allergy rampant destroying everything
except the outline of my thoughts which run on
automatic, everything else lost, munching like
A worm, trying to minimize this effect though it
seems all attempts are worsening it, need sleep
to change personalities, escape the zombie state
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Related quotes
Thoughts and ideas - (Talking through my hat)
Break and husk
thoughts and ideas that,
without reason,
I smashing them like nuts
into my head – mortar with pig iron pestle.
Lay and hatch
thoughts and ideas,
and younglings,
instead of fly,
I keep them under latch
in my head – cage of neurons,
dendrites and axons.
Knead and raise
thoughts and ideas
but let me tempted,
and without reason,
instead of bake them, I play
“of thieves and bobbies”
with bullets of dough
shot from my head – automatic gun.
Pull kernels out of
thoughts and ideas
but I put not them to spring
and hundredfold harvest to bring,
I chain them necklace
that my poor mind
who walks nomad
through my head – ballad
to put it neck
in a night with moon
and than to catch
in a fairies dance
and hungry of blue
to soar in the stars.
***
Thoughts and ideas
are shrieking through my mind
as lost migratory birds
in an autumn of rains.
Thoughts and ideas
- arrow-shaped cranes with wet wings -
fall all at once
in my head – moorland
of thistle and mud.
Bevies of ideas
and useless thoughts
surround my mind
how ravens give wheel
carrions to be
through my head - waste land
by boiling and winds.
Thoughts and ideas
go round
like a pack of wolves
with empty bellies
through my head – winter of frost,
winter of sleet
with my mind
thoroughly frozen
by fright and a biting wind.
Pick
bunches of thoughts and ideas
caressed by the sun of mind
in bacchanal vineyards
planted on encephalic hills.
I squish them
and expect to get wine
and get drunk
in my head – tavern where the smoke
knife just cut it
and air is sourbitter.
Fog of thoughts and ideas
rises from my mind
as darkness on swamps
in late autumn.
Nothing to see
not hear anything
all still is,
just the small brain
flickers in my head – gray curtain
between movement and inertia.
Slacked thoughts and ideas
are resting on benches of mind,
nothing pulling them
with hands and teeth,
I can’t them gather
at work to bring
to get something good
from my head – chaos
where it lacks a poleax
and a stump of elm.
poem by Viorel Petru Trifan
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Myriad Thoughts
I sit here in myriad thoughts
dancing around my head
too fed up to put them to bed.
Thoughts of the past,
thoughts of the future too,
thoughts of things this and that
and thoughts of what to do.
Memories invade at times
of pastures long gone by
as the myriad thoughts
fill my mind with anger and with love
and times; I wish I could have lingered with
when my years were young.
Things pass in phases,
hearts entwine then fall apart,
seasons readily appear,
stay awhile and then depart.
Here I sit in a lonely waste
thinking thoughts of what might have been
if the crystal ball I look into had only seen.
Now the myriad thoughts appear
to haunt me in quiet times
and carry me to distant places
the world has left behind.
Those little specks of moments
that still linger from the past
that lay waiting to capture me
before the quiet time has passed.
28 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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Allergy Enemy Friend 13/11/2009
Something affecting my eyes, I suspect
the curry hubby added so happily to our
food, eyes swollen, vision blurred, cannot
read my book, allergy symptoms in tinnitus,
unending fatigue
Allergy is my greatest enemy and friend: forcing
me to work like mad to overcome confusion and
lost opportunities, it developed my character into
a rock-hard entity to keep fighting the symptoms
with humour
Driving me into isolation and inactivity – yet it
brought me the greatest joy: forced to seek
relief in mental activities, I read the most
wonderful books and feel compelled to
write poetry!
poem by Margaret Alice
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Being A Poet
I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.
Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.
At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.
If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.
There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.
I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.
Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.
In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.
With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.
Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Book Of Black Holes
You be on yourside
I'll be on my side
In between there is a book
the book of Black Holes
You sling your arrows
I'll dodge the harrows
And then I'll record it
In the book of Black Holes
There be many pages
that goes through many stages
In the end you may find it
In the book of Black Holes
If it's a five or ten
Even a zero I win
And I have recorded it
In the book of Black Holes
Your comments cryptic
Your words haze, eliptic
And like I said goes down
In the book of Black Holes
Your choice to be insipid
Your dreams are timid
Compared to what's collected
In my book of Black Holes
poem by Midnights Voice
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Insomniac Night
Night creeps in, so the thoughts begin,
Not to tired, hopefully soon i'll be inspired,
Need something to write, it happens every night,
When the sun goes down, and most people shut down,
My mind continues to run, even though i want the day done,
Turn on the T.V., but there's nothing for me,
This is so annoying, no sleep my mind slowly destroying,
The words now harder to find, dreams and reality becoming entwined,
Need to go lay down again, trying hard to not let insomnia win.
poem by Taylor Knapczyk
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Can't Fall Asleep
My thoughts keep me up at night,
my tears put me to sleep,
my dreams wake me up,
after only an hour of sleep.
I can't rest no more,
I can't fall back to sleep,
so I lie in bed for hours at a time,
watching the clock as the time keeps going by.
I toss and I turn,
trying to find something comforable,
but when I'm almost asleep,
my thoughts wake me up again.
So I lay there thinking the thoughts,
that wont leave me alone.
I try time and time again,
but I cant fall back to sleep.
Finally I fall asleep,
but then i quickly hear a noise,
it is my alarm telling me to get up for the day ahead,
but it doesnt realize that I've been up all night.
Thinking, thinking of those thoughts that won't let me sleep.
So I quickly turn off the annoying buzzing noise,
and there I lay in my bed,
dreading the day ahead.
poem by Rebeckah Schroeder
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Rest My Thoughts
Caught in that state of mind from which escape
is barely possible if at all, effected by means of
a complete change of consciousness, a shot of
adrenaline or a good book
Yet there is light at the end of the tunnel: ordered
Mary Poppins and Bedknobs and Broomsticks by
Walt Disney on DVD in order to rest my thoughts
in these magic realms
Now you can watch rugby for hours at a time while
I shall visit my own Wonderland to etch the grooves
of delight deeper in my mind, escaping the feeling of
bondage that formerly
Used to keep me immobile for hours on end, I can
manually change the mental gears to override
automatic reversals into depression, I can
enter a state of meditation
To experience the sparkling joy of pure existence
without the encumbrance of the spectres that so
often haunt my imagination
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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How Could I Hide?
There is no escape
Always creeping, always following always there
Always here, there is nowhere to go
Nowhere to run to
Nowhere to stay far from
No distance great enough
No wall strong enough
Never enough
How can you hide
From what is inside
How is that you could distance yourself from that who is in you
That who is you
How is that you could just not be the you who you are
How is it I could not be me
No matter what I do he's there he's in me he is me
How could I not be the sum of my mistakes?
How can You tell me that I'm more
How could I not be something to abhor
I cannot run from who I am, how is that not tied to what I did
What I do doesn't that become me? Do I become that?
My mind tells me that's wrong, my heart is evil, but it knows You
The part of me that does know You says You can erase it all
But I don't feel it, I'm sorry, I often don't, I feel like me
And to me that is the greatest torture to be me
Because the me that I think that I am is someone who I could never
Bear to live as, never, not ever
Instead of believing you I just ask How can I hide?
Can I hide from what's inside?
Can I cease to be me
Can I escape the mistakes
Can I escape the thoughts
Can I escape the identity
Can I escape from me
There is nowhere to run, nowhere I've gone
Nowhere I feel I can go
Will be far enough from me to escape me
Nothing in my mind feels sufficient to conquer me
I cannot divorce myself from what I believe makes me who I am
How could it not rule me, the evil thoughts I have thought
Are not just thoughts in the past, they're thoughts that last
They're thoughts I still think, how is there freedom from that evil
How is their cleansing from that sin
Truly without You there is no hope and I cannot win
But even with all You say about me I don't know how to change
Can I change my idea of me?
Can I come int my new identity?
Can I really escape when I cannot run?
I must fight against him
Show me Your love
Help me please
Cleanse me from 'me'
So that I can be me
poem by David Knox
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Feelings: Will Cinderella Ever Go To The Ball
My biggest fear since I was small has
ever been fear of boring nothingness
I commiserated with the animals for
their confinement to the here and now
and their enslavement to nature’s cycles
desperately seeking my own escape
through mind- power and ethereal
thoughts, but today I realize BEING is
JOY –only I am bereft of that privilege
of joyful being through my allergy…
I’m so glad to know the goodness of
the universe, but my question is
why was I born without the ability
to enjoy being ‘per se’, confined
to discomfort and pain – why was
I left out of everything? And will
this Cinderella ever get to go
to the ball?
poem by Margaret Alice
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(Writer Poem) A Conversation With Yourself
As writer one must be able to converse with them selves in different personalities.
A three way conversation all in ones head.
Is that crazy?
If so I'm most certainly okay with it.
It makes me feel better to express views from different perspectives.
It is observation and the understanding the human mind and personality.
How will one person react over another when ask the same question.
Again another one of my thoughts expressed just after added a new paragraph in the book.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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I Dream
In day time I dream
And in night I scream
Get nothing on hand
And unnecessarily land
Thoughts make me wonder
To roam around for Adventure
Head feels heavy in next day morning
Like to sleep in day time with little snoring
It happens with all
When receive disturbing call
What to tell and how to react?
Mind is busy with immediate steps to act
Not all people get put of it easily
As solution is not available readily
Many sleepless nights follow
You are desperate and act slow
You fight daily with novel ideas
Make all attempts with several pleas
Yet get no clue as how to get rid off
But it has now become top priority with job
It is daily struggle and life moves on
Sound sleep is now distinct and gone
You are now seized with burning issues
You have no time to go through it and review
I want to be peaceful with events
But can't offer quietly with comments
I have become camel in this desert journey
Where I scream but can't have honey
If one thinks that life can become easy?
It is nice to feel with picture so rosy
But things are different from reality
It may prove decisive if you come out with sheer ability
I may be gone one day
But life may as it is stay
It is endless and continuous
So its fruits are also obvious
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Chronicles of a Criss Crossed and Broken Heart part 3 Paper to ink, , , ink to memories... memories to...wind
...scribble... paper stained the color black
front and back
imprinting in my mind
yet none else may see, none can find
the meaning, for they cannot read
this the way i do and therefore no one takes heed
hear me out!
must i shout? !
warning....warning danger near
warning... I'm trouble my dear
danger its here!
why won't you run
its like burning for 40 hours in hot sun
dont stay
get away i dont want to hurt you i want you but get away...
please just leave me be
its better for you and me
that we never indulge in causerie
these words 'friend love' and 'friendship'
burned into my head
staying with me until i am dead always here until im dead
these thoughts of pain stick with me
in the darkness of mind and memory
o so cruelly
they eat at me
but this pain
even when life begins wain
no one can see just whats happening to me
i must try and let go, put my memories away
but i must be careful not to slip away
with them going into a state of craziness
i cnat lose myself to the wind no never not going to happen
so inviting so cool at touch so tingly at every touch
no this is not too much
i just gotta hold on as i blow away
words burning into my head
ink splatters all over my dead
body this zombie corpse, quite a scene no blood just black ink stain
i think and think writing black words
pain and wain and sustain just more stains...
farther inot the black handwriting useless myself useless too much black ink
no more ink this poem this messed up rhyme
never was..
poem by David Knox
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Thoughts Mind Soul Echoes
thoughts like children
scatter from our mind
thoughts were part of us?
thoughts came from us?
thoughts live beyond us?
thoughts outlive our lives?
thoughts mind soul echoes
haunting fragments of mind
light shines through prisms
separates into colour bands
thought trails sunset colours
spectrum ribbons thoughts
spiral into keen conceptions
meaning insight discriminates
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Chornicles of a Dark Heart Part 16 The open book's monologue
Red what is it to you black the color of death? maybe maybe not? anyone here play video games? FOR CHAOS? ring any bells help spread the taint more quickly? what might an open book write
what would a open book draw
what would an open book think
open books are predictable
so predict what the picture means
why is black black? why is red O infused? what is the meaning only you know maybe only me...
(added years later)
Maybe I'm the book, and maybe you're the reader
but who is you? is it not everyone
since I'm open, for all to point at laugh at, out of malice or for fun
because they know my thoughts, they know i love her? !
what did i do?
i never said i love you! ! !
how can they know?
how did i reap what i did now sow? !
The worst part
about being an open book,
is an open book can't close itself, can't have a heart
anyone can know all from just one look
there seems to be something wrong with being too open and honest
but it's too late a book can't close itself
can't move by its own accord to a shelf
an open book can never rest
so now I'm the book, so since im there just read
just read.... and watch my heart, my purpose, my soul, my life, me
watch.... watch them bleed
poem by David Knox
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I'm Lost
I'm lost,
In many thoughts.
I'm lost,
In frightening thoughts.
I'm lost,
In sad thoughts.
I'm lost,
In upsetting thoughts.
I'm lost,
In fearful thoughts.
I'm lost,
In many ways.
I'm lost,
In many places.
I'm lost,
In my mind.
I'm lost,
Beacause of you.
poem by Dragon Crenshaw
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An Idea
An Idea can change the world, how many
things can be done from an idea, every piece
of object was an idea, sense the beginning of
time idea was the first thought created in the
mind, an idea is what surround’s every being.
But an idea is still only an idea and it can't be
felt, you cannot touch an idea or kiss it, or hold it,
ideas do not bleed or feel pain or love, an idea
cannot be seen or heard, its created in our thoughts,
but then again an idea can become real. An idea
can be what ever you which it to be, an idea can
be destructive, an idea can be brilliant, I've seen
people get killed in the name of ideas, ideas,
we walk around with a little
light bulb blinking in our thoughts, ideas.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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In the steps of Rumi 88: Metaphor
Simile – what looks like something else –
that’s a fun game for the senses,
for the mind: oh look Dad,
there’s a scarecrow in that field
that looks just like a man, does it
really scare crows?
Oh look Dad, there’s a beggar in the street
who looks just like a scarecrow,
I wonder if the same crows
see him too?
But metaphor – ah, that’s something else:
explanations don’t quite explain it:
you see something; it brings to mind
something very different; maybe
you just forget it, pass on; maybe
you’re a poet, and you think,
that other thing casts a subtle light
on this first thing, I’ll see if others
find the same.. and, sometimes they do,
sometimes they don’t…
Metaphor brings the whole universe,
world upon world, to the mind:
you could write a poem full of metaphor
as long as the circumference of the world,
and when you’d written it out, you’d find yourself
right here again just where you were.. but
what a lot you’d seen on the way…
We’re so used to some metaphors
because by now, they’re shared,
written into language (lucky the people
who inherit languages such as these,
they’re born into poetry…) :
take ‘bread’: you walk past the baker’s shop
in the early morning when the air is clear –
or better, go in to buy your breakfast rolls:
the smell couldn’t be more wonderful,
more promising.. the bread’s so delicious,
and best eaten today..
ah yes, ‘daily bread’ – that becomes a metaphor
for all that each and every day brings –
waking up, new thoughts, new experiences,
all that brings life to life…
that covers so many subtle things…
where does it all come from?
that’s for you to say…
Sometimes it seems that the whole world
is a metaphor for something…
for what? For its own unity,
for its very creation,
for that which we call God,
for our very self?
that’s for you to say…
Metaphor. When you meet it,
does it make you think of
English class, another boring
poem, another boring question
to answer as you chew your pen –
‘What does the poet mean when
he speaks of, lies like oyster shells
to be penknifed for their pearls? ’…
or - does it fill your heart with joy
as if someone had given you
a golden key to a secret garden
which is all you ever hoped for;
more than you could ever imagine…
and yet you recognise
it’s all really just yourself? …
In the corner of your room
there's a little girl curled up
in a large armchair, reading a book.
Don't disturb her.
The book she reads with all her self today,
may never read again, doesn't need to -
is a metaphor for
all she needs to know today
about the world, about herself;
she finishes the book,
closes it thoughtfully,
looks up at you;
she knows herself
a little more today.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Swollen Tortoise
We happily conversed while you experimented,
I promised myself I won't take a bite as you added
beef stock to curry, when I refused you insisted, it
should be safe - now I'm awake, a small fire in my
intestines reminding me why my world is so small
Step over the line of eating restriction and pay the
price, I can't sleep at all, listening to Tiaan's restless
pacing indicates he shares my fate; can't close my
eyes, can't lie down, the floor does not offer any
respite - I'm convicted by my own choice to
eat things my system cannot process - I resemble
Ionesco's rhinoceros, feeling like a swollen tortoise*,
I read multiple personalities react differently to stimuli
depending on which one occupies the body - I wish
I had another me, like the three faces of Eve - to
change my chemical set-up, the only effect change
has is varied feelings - from terribly depressed to
totally ecstatic - yet my body remains the same
oversensitive seismograph - making me wish
for separation of body and mind
As soon as possible…
16/02/2012
*or a beached whale - whichever comes first…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Insomnia
There are nights when you cannot fall asleep,
you toss and turn, but sleep will not come.
Your mind is too awake with things you must do
you cannot stay in bed anymore.
You get up and watch the clock
as time ticks remorselessly by
and ask yourself why is happening to me?
Insomnia they call it.
As you grow older less sleep you need,
or at least that is how it feels to me.
You have too many things
occupying your mind
sitting there alone
in the middle of the night
doing some of the things you have to do.
Hoping to clear your head
of some of the thoughts running through it
while waiting for your body to say
I am tired now.
5 November 2008
poem by David Harris
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