You're a walking overreaction
When something doesn't go your way
You think it's everlasting
And when the heart inside your cold chest
Doesn't get a response
You blame it on unhappiness

I think it's over, all of those complaints
But when they start again
I wonder if you ever learned restraint
Sometimes it's easy
But most of the time
I can barely stand you speaking

You're still a child
Somewhere, out there
There must someone who likes your style
I'll bet they're crazy
It doesn't matter how hard you try
It ain't me

Can you believe it?
Somebody near you
Doesn't like it when you talk ****
Maybe you should try this
When a thought comes in your head
Don't just say it, maybe filter it

He’s not like the others,
he’s not even a wholly likable child.

I mean, he has the cute face
high squeaky voice
chipmunk cheeks.

It’s his personality,
his attitude,
it’s the fact that he’s only 7 years old
and already hates the majority of what he’s seen of this wide world.

It’s the fact that he manipulates everyone’s words
until he’s made the collage that meets his ideal visage.

He’s more than a handful.
He’s even more than a whole village’s armful.

And though I know a part of its’ the diagnosis
it’s hard to keep that in mind
all the time.

(It’s hard to forgive an unlikable child)

Even harder as he swings insults your way,

as you have to take off running after him for the nth time this week.

It’s hard keeping a straight face,
keeping the unflappable demeanor
through every offense.

It’s hard not to scream,
curse,
cry,
  to remain the calm island in the face of the raging tempest.

But you have to.
(Even though he’s not the most likable child)

He is still a child.

And you’re loving compassion is stronger than his self destruction.

This tough front,
This altogether unlikeable first impression,
This mean, crude obnoxious scumbag,
This despicable misogynist,
This cynical misanthropic madman,
“Wassup wit dat?”
Enquiring fans of poetry want to know.
Simply stated, 'tis my oldest modus operandi,
Self-protective, learned street behavior;
My don’t-****-with–me first line of defense.
Surely some form of survival mechanism;
Meant in the narrow psychological sense.
Evidence of mental health or illness,
My cloaking device and shield,
Gift from Jove, my goombah father.
Dad: a powerful force in any child’s universe—
Be the patriarch dead, absent, retired on the job,
Out of the picture, just plain missing--or insane,
The latter, something you may not
Want to know about your gene pool.

So I’m really just a *****.
Forgive the expression, Germaine Greer.
A pussycat and big old teddy bear,
Mr. Sensitivity:
Wiping a warm washcloth between your legs.
Across puffed & pouted lips, gently.
After shooting a load of *** into you.
Or on your face: Spumante!

No, strike that last part.
Let’s start again.
I am a kind soul, a precious man.
The sort who likes animals;
Puppies, especially, and kittens too.
Savoring sunsets and flowers,
I serve you sweet gelato & Asti.
Sometimes I’ll spumante you with original love poetry.
My Muse: your gorgeous body delights me,
Your brilliant mind & noble spirit inspires.
Each night of the week I surprise you,
Prepare for you an exquisite home-cooked gourmet meal.
Served with your favorite Pinot Noir,
Brought to your elegant, candlelit dining room table,
By yours truly, wearing only a scarlet bow tie
And black silk jockstrap.
(Starting to get into this, Maureen Dowd?)
Later I’ll run you a relaxing bath,
So you’ll have something to do,
While I wash the dishes, scrub the pots,
Do a load of whites, clean your bidet,
And Swiffer®  (www.swiffer.com) the entire house.

By then, you are ready for your nightly spa treatment,
A 15-minute, deep tissue massage,
Followed by a hot oil treatment.
Next up is 30 nonstop delirious minutes,
Me, going down on you, without
Seeking any ****** gratification for myself.
In the morning I’ll make macadamia nut pancakes,
Your favorite, and brew you a fabulous cup of coffee,
From freshly ground beans, very rare beans
Salvaged from Karen Blixen’s last crop, before the fire
Completely destroyed her plantation in Kenya.
"I had a farm in Africa, Babaloo!

You can go shopping from dawn to dusk
With Ruth Madoff, while I go out & lose my soul,
Selling Dominican Republic timeshares all day and all night . . .  
(Cue West Indies Calypso: “All Day, All Night, Mary Ann!”)
Calypso-Harry Belafonte Songs, Reviews, Credits,
Awards www.allmusic.com/album/calypso. 1956.)
I’ll still find the time to open up for you
A line of credit at your favorite nail salon.
I’ll pay for weekly bikini waxes, hair and Botox treatments,
And the odd cosmetic surgery you may require.
I’ll pay your cell phone bill; I’ll pay off your college loans.
I’ll send money to your extended family in the Ukraine.
Yeah, that’s the kind of guy I am.
Your life with me will be every woman’s dream.

And, if you believe that,
You soulless Ukrainian ****,
Then monkeys will fly out of my Wayne’s World ****,
You stupid capital C for ****-*******,
Capital B for *****.
THIS JUST IN:
“Arms and the Woman,”
An article in Time Magazine, conveys a statistic:
Some 20 million women in the U.S. own guns.
As the NRA instructs:
Guns don’t **** people.
Women with Glocks **** people.

I only like you because you're my best friend.
If I didn't like you so much,
I'd hate your guts
because everything about you is so unlikeable

but you're my best friend,
so I kind of like you a lot.

When I was 6 years old,
I was told I was too much.
Keep it to yourself they'd scold,
you're unlikeable, not bold.
Unique is the opposite of gold,
so my personality took a toll.
And no matter how much strength I would hold
Nobody liked me,
so I had to fold.

I was left out when I was in grade eight.
Apparently I changed myself too late.
I did everything for everyone
hoping for a clean slate.
Yet I'd already met my fate.
There was no retake,
only resentment and hate.
I needed distraction,
so I started to fill my plate.

Highschool came and on a platter,
was a fresh start.
And for a second I'd thought old me and new me had grown apart.
I made friends like it was an art.
The warm feeling of care
began to fill my heart.
That's when the dead persona came back,
like a poison dart.
And everything I had built, fell apart.

i don't know why i liked you before.
you were arrogant, unlikeable.
though my feelings were short,
i still fully regret them.

you thought you were "all that"
smart, maybe even a nerd
but you were faking it.
you aren't anything.

nothing but an empty face
full of pretend
now when you speak
i look away.

you're yappy
as a drooling
sack of dogs
and as happy
as a vietnam
bombing.
you're ******
as downtown
new orleans
pretentious
as banksy
unlikeable
as amy schumer
worn and round
as a linkin
park CD
and yet
you're lovely as
a dumb *****
could be.

when i was younger,
afternoons meant screaming matches;
sorry, i mean screaming
lectures, maybe
or sessions
never matches-
we were never allowed to reply
or she'd scream louder and
louder.

i grew up ashamed.
ashamed of my body
ashamed of my personality
ashamed of my quirks and ticks
ashamed of what made me, me
i hated them.
i wanted to strip them away,
peel off my skin,
bleach my face,
burn my hands,
remove anything
that made me her target.
to this day, i still
hold out hope
that i may one day
stop hating myself.

crying was a weakness
unworthy of comfort
i have no memory
of being comforted
or held
just
alone
my pillow and my stuffed animals
for company
oh, how i longed to be held
just once
just for a moment,
someone to hold me up
when i couldn't breathe.

she used to tell us
the reason she screamed so loudly
was because she had tried, in the past
to speak softly.
apparently, we never listened.

i don't remember her
ever speaking evenly
i don't remember a day
without screams
(oh the screams)
filling the house, my mind
and even if she had tried so hard
to be quiet with us, and failed,
aren't mothers supposed to be patient,
even if the children do not listen?

i hated the way she would scream, yes
but more than that i hated
the way she would tower over me
face inches from mine,
eyes alight with what i could only
describe as
pure hatred
the image still haunts me
i'm still scared of her eyes, sometimes.

she gets so mad, sometimes.
i'm convinced she is not aware,
she does not remember
the things she says
when she is taking out her anger
on me.
a blind rage.
isn't that all i am?
an outlet for her anger?
the antagonist to her lead character?
the useless child she has to drive to school
for two more years?
will i ever be anything but
the result of years of anger?
the target of her mockery?
the recipient of her insults?
will i ever be more than
ugly
*****
disgusting
manipulative
evil
fat
stupid
dumb
unca­ring
unloving
ungrateful
a monster
a brat
a demon
a pig
an animal
boring
antisocial
timid
unlikeable
unwanted?

i have only ever known her to be sharp
harsh
disgusted with anything i do
that's why it hurts
when she gives me brief hugs,
smiles,
tells me she only screams
because she loves me
because i know
her intentions are pure
if her actions
are knives slotted between
my ribs.

why am i so unlikeable
why is everything i do a mistake
why do i feel so alone
why can't i be happy
why am i feeling sorry for myself
why can't i
why am i
why didn't i
why don't i
why won't i
why
why
why.

why do i continue to live this life.

- a.g.

Not the first thing to come to mind
Hidden in the back of your head,
A fragment of once passed,
I am almost forgotten.

Not that I ever knew much about
The touch of your breath or how it felt.
Stripped from presence, I only knew,
From a far what I felt and saw.

Day after day, every next day's the same.
You with your own, and me on my way.
Rarely, and not lately, our paths intersect.
And you, don't have a clue, that you live in my head.

Just so you know -
I don't mean to persuade, ******, flatter,
Or somehow try to appear to you and start to matter.
My image for you is of something greater.
It's just an unfeedable hunger,
An irresistible need, a longing,
And nothing other.

It's just that the thought of you
Brings a calm feeling and creates
An undisturbed peace and happiness in my mind,
Where I find solace, balance, help and a lending hand.

And on those rare moments where I glimpse in your life
I spend my day in joy,
Because I get to taste yours,
A second life, other than mine,

Sometimes, I am even jealous for what you have and are.
It's really nothing much, don't mind it all, at all.
You're just the highly unlikeable wish to happen to me.
That pumps in me together with the rhythm of my heart.

How do you value those who touched you?
Where none has ever touched
including yourself
those who have drunk from the streams
of your warm wet body with the palms of their hands
but their thirst remains unquenched
and those whose feelings you touched.
What about those who have fallen into abyss of your heart
a heart that is too steep to climb.

Is your inner most feelings?
The furthest distance to reach
Those who left themselves could not reach you
And couldn’t return as they left themselves
Not with their courageous heart but breathing lungs
Locked in memories: remembering embracing you in their chest
Or shaking hands with your breast
Dreaming of dancing together with tongues
Your breath deep in their lungs

What is that is so lovely in your unlikeable ways?
Truth doesn’t lie in the lips but in the tongue is the taste
why did you kiss their cold cheeks with your burning lips?
Look at their faces: immutable and possessed
Perceptions erased, impressions effaced
A flag raised half-mast
An emblem of your love
Look at them: weary and weak
One of them so wicked and
Another, he and his flesh went separate ways
Leaving his skin hugging his bones
Christmas tree is lovelier of all tress
But has no shade or bore no fruit
Your beauty is no more than
A hidden veil of your weakness
So mysterious- a public secret

Why did you make them walk away?
Were they not worthy or obliged to stay
Who taught you how to dance in another tune?
A rhythm different from the beats of the drums
what is it that you are not doing right? Or
Are You what most find it difficult to love?
And what almost everyone find it hard to leave?

Yea? you wanna know what i feel?

I feel so unlikeable that i turn out ashamed of being me
ashamed of who i am and what im made of
it feels like i was never the girl you really liked in the first place
i never was once the girl of your interest.
I play makeups and clothes, not guitar and drumsticks
I love mellow music, not hard rock screamoes which u do like.

Were totally different in such million ways yet how did we found a love between a torn crack full of black and whites

Maybe I am unlikeable,
Even though nobody says anything to me;
They just glance,
And turn away.

since i was a little girl,
i've been a very good actress
earlier in life, i was a golden girl
way ahead than my peers, a shining over-achiever
good in being too much, too much unlikeable

in my teenage years,
i played the role of misery
with grey clouds hanging over my head
custom-made puddles beneath my feet
and hand-drawn cross-stitches on my left wrist

through the end of adolescence,
i starred in a star-crossed romance
in which i was a frustrating lover
the "always leaving others" lover
the "you will only understand my action when we're in our 40s" lover

now that i am a 2 years old adult,
i am acting like a lost child in a big playground
mind spiraling down the slide
shaky judgements on the see-saw
the fool climbing the monkey-bar

man, i am such a star...

And when the demons,
From your unlikeable past;

Drink sodas and lemons,
With your present cast;

Know ye that time calls upon thee,
To make peace your cup of tea.

And when the demons,
From your unlikeable past;

Drink sodas and lemons,
With your present cast;

Know ye that time calls upon thee,
To make peace your cup of tea.

She is only twenty-three, seven years younger than her brother. She is riding that motorbike late at night, aginst all fears. All she wants is to take her brother and mother to the most favorite place at night in Kandy. It was drizzling a little too by then.

She mixed up with the directions a little. They ended up heading to a place where a highly unlikeable bunch of people hanging out and accommodate.  They were drinking. It wasn't a pleasant party. Some people are born so nasty, He thought to himself and reminded of the world's Victorian days. All praise the Queens, Science is new Victoria.

Life felt like a prolonged mystery.

Yesterday, I was not a nice person
An entire episode of that

Apologies being crafted
Strategies hopefully drafted

A. Bourdain?
It was a trigger

Why I love travel
My best times with you

Showed us everywhere
Bonds we all share

Crass, adorable, unlikeable
(Self reflection there)

I didn’t suffer loss well
A man behaving badly

I was awful to my travel companion
No excuses; apology?