A douche will only date a model, but at least he's honest.
A jerk will date anyone, but only make the models feel beautiful.
A decent guy will date the girls with a low-average bmi, say he doesn't look at size, but his actions say otherwise.
A nice guy will date a fat girl, but marry a skinny one.
A good guy will marry a fat girl, but wish, every day, that she was thinner--and she will always know.
A rare guy will date a fat girl and not realize that she's fat. She will feel beautiful and think she's a model.
But he's a minority, and non-model girls are a majority.
There's a solution:
Starve until the fat disappears.
Until every guy that has ever preferred a skinny girl over you;
over a girl that looks like you
-- or worse --
is even smaller than you, but not small enough,
would finally consider you worthy.
But don't get too thin.
Guys complain about that too.
Now you're not pretty enough,
Starve until you're just right --
and then they'll tell you how great you look;
ask you how you did it.
You'll lie, yet again, to maintain the facade.
They'll think you're disciplined --
but they don't know just how much.
You can starve so they're happy;
put on a smile to make them think you are too. Because you never will be --
they've destroyed your mind with their standards; you've destroyed it with striving to live up to them.
You'll marry a guy who tells you you're beautiful, but your eyes are broken;
an ugly, obese girl relentlessly stares back.
She tells you your husband lies.
She tells you food is bad, purging is good.
She tells you your husband would prefer someone skinnier,
You'll never be enough -- all because some teenage boy hung up a poster of a
model on his wall --
and he decided that she was the ultimate goal, and, thus, your destiny emerged.
What am I supposed to say?
That I love you?
It's kinda hard to say that
And mean it too.
When you list the reasons why
I should love you,
They're all physical.
I need love.
I need to know you're there for me.
Actually there for me.
I've never heard you say,
"I'm proud of you, love."
All I hear is negative things.
"why couldn't you do this?"
"why couldn't you clean that?"
"you never do anything!"
"sure you did this but why couldn't you do this too?"
I try mom
I really do..
If my grades are good and the house is clean,
If I'm pretty and my grades are good,
The house is dirty.
If I'm pretty and the house is clean,
My grades are bad.
I'm sorry I'm not what you wanted..
I'm sorry I can't live up to your expectations..
I'm sorry that I'm a disappointment..
Please forgive me.
Please love me.
Please, just be my mom..
And then, I saw the gates of heaven open wide;
A sight of a pretty woman seen, like a shadow;
she sat on his lap, conveniently; comfortably;
She was called by a false nick name in her own life;
highly recommended; graded for immoral values;
declared many wars of lust with men and won victoriously;
Her both eyes were glowing like a red flame of fire;
lips, moisturized and were like poisonous sharp arrows;
on her head were many crowns, black in color;
She had a name written in an unknown language;
no one knew; read and understood, except herself.
She was wearing no clothes, except a transparent gown,
dipped in blood, and her name is called by others;
The Beautiful Evil of the high heavens !
(All poems in this series are, translations from Malayalam, originally written in author’s mother-tongue, “Malayalam’”, the language of Kerala, in South India.)
BY WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[or more reasons I want to slap you right across your pretty face]
my brain informed my arm to
tell my hand
to pick up a pen and
tell of your voice
the first time
i hear your particular vibrations
your sound waves
over the air
i almost drove off the side of the road
...now i have to close my eyes
and hold my breath
trying to hear a silent memory
stored in a recess of my mind
your voice has a musical quality
a warm tone
that i miss
this brings me to your perfect, hateful lips
(really, i could do without all of this nonsense)
this very moment my heart is pounding
right out of my chest
my jaw clenched
my eyes glaring stubbornly into blank space
just because i thought about your lips.
the perfect lines
the feel of them pressed against mine
first so soft, like nothing i have felt before
so light and glorious time stands still
there is nothing but happiness
until there is also heat
and time quickens
while kisses slow
contain more pressure
and nothing exists
but you and your lips.
i want to slap you
for informing me of your jogging habit
my imagination is quite active
and the last possible thing i need
is the sun...
glinting on your hair
on your stupid muscles
i mean, seriously?
i've almost run down 18 men
that look nothing like you
because of this insanity
that has saturated my brain
never in my life
have i been slammed
with such desire
how to end this madness
but forced to remain still.
letting words flow
trying to calm the mind.
but my body wants to m o v e .
my heart wants to explode
my breath wants to quicken...
my voice wants to escape...
my nails want to claw...
my teeth want to bite...
release me from this madness...
i just want to get through one goddamn day
one godforsaken lonely night
without this ridiculous longing
To look truth
right in her
devil blue eyes
would be all
yet too lovely;
only few know.
When truth is
ugly starts to
show as the
pretty lies unravel
into the twisted
phenomena that has
become our world.
72 years. Thats how long true love lasts. Well I like to think it lasts longer. I don’t know that for sure yet but I’d like to some day. Together since age fourteen and sixteen, I think thats pretty impressive. A different time. Which sucks because so much of ‘love’ nowadays revolves around lust. Which is more physical than emotional. So then I wonder how can they throw the word love around, whilst throwing themselves around. Oh the irony
Well I thought I loved someone once. Eight months, with probably triple that amount in fights. Though we fought it came easy to us. I guess thats more than I can say then the couples that were around us. But it was too hard. Hearing what he really thought about me. Not good enough. Too far away. Like I was so object only to be attained, to be shown off. Like a prize. Well I stopped being that object the same day he decided he didn’t love me
That’s what also sucks about this generation. There isn’t just a relationship or single there is: Talking, talking talking, flirt texting, couple dates talking, occasionally hook up talking, got drunk that one time at a party and now things are awkward talking. Then there’s: Having a thing, kind of together, pretty much together but not official, pretty much together but not Facebook official, together, and too many more.
We can’t go two seconds with out Facebook stalking, texting, IMing, calling, or being together without fights, or assumptions about unfaithfulness. People are treated as objects and love it because someone, somewhere is paying attention to them and making them feel special. Generation X. Who can’t stop worrying about all their ex’s. More like generation disappointment.
Sometimes I like to be random. I guess my whole life’s been pretty random. I don’t like to think before I speak. I sometimes start my sentences mid thought... My dad hates that. I like to go swimming at night, and have breakfast for dinner. Sometimes you have to change it up. Because mundane is boring. And before you know it, you’ll be too set in your own ways to change anything. Girls are confusing. Boys are oblivious. And generalizations suck.
I like to change it up because sometimes the only thing you can control is what you do. That doesn’t seem like much, but its more than what some people have. My favorite color is green. Once I taught myself the entire alphabet backwards... just because. I have a stuffed Unicorn named Sparkles and he is a boy. I bought him for myself last week.
I like change, but crave the routine. Weird isn’t it. Well weird is pretty accurate for a girl who likes Nickelodeon more than MTV. Netflix with my dog and parents more than parties. Sometimes I even go to late movies... With my mom. Then again sometimes, I just like to be random.
Silent swing on the tree,
creeking as the wind blows
Doesn't really look like much.
They're talking of tearing it down.
If only they saw...
Yes, it is abandoned,
and has no significance
neither to me nor to the world,
but that is its significance
A singular, physical unit abandonment
in its prime manifestive form.
painfully present for everyone to see.
How many more of them exist?
Nowadays, they just tear them down
or put a pretty facade on
but it's still present,
just covered up.
I guess we're just modernizing the world,
to be more human.
They Sold My Name!
No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.
You're fair game if your sign up for anything.
Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.
St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm
In case you want to check it out too...
Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty!),
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK airports
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!
Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!
Ok ok, grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those dirty (hint: it rhymes with mikes),
It starts with K and ends in yikes!
But thanks for thinking of me anyway.
Where are you?
My struggled night's rest
Hasn't been the same since you
Done anything extravagant
Or gotten into an untimely
Where's my confidence?
My willingness to take
It all seems to evade me these days
Where are you?
Reality's too unbearable
For this young Cub to
Life is dull
Gray and not pretty
My Door is just a door
And no longer represents