melsml - Hello Poetry

Reading bad poetry, writing bad poetry, existing as a subpar slice of unemotional prose. I'm a singsong last-ditch singalong; ding-dong-ditch me, ***** me out. Slice me up and lay me out to dry. I cut onions: I don't cry. You ignore me: I don't mind. Remember me as a sad story and not a person. It'll be gratifying, albeit dehumanizing, patronizing, but at least you'll be sympathizing as I'm unsurprisingly capsizing. Right now I'm realizing that I wanna be the hungry waves and not the sinking ship; the sharp harpoon and not unfortunate Moby **** I wanna be the brick instead of the window pane; I wanna be the ****** sword and not the bleeding slain. So the inferiority complex that's been harrowingly ingrained inside of my needlessly idle brain can **** off once again, because I'm gonna be the poet now, not the reader, page, nor pen.

0

Aug 8, 2016

Aug 8, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC

it's 11:44 pm and i'm watching men's gymnastics

Reading bad poetry, writing bad poetry, existing as a subpar slice of unemotional prose. I'm a singsong last-ditch singalong; ding-dong-ditch me, ***** me out. Slice me up and lay me out to dry. I cut onions: I don't cry. You ignore me: I don't mind. Remember me as a sad story and not a person. It'll be gratifying, albeit dehumanizing, patronizing, but at least you'll be sympathizing as I'm unsurprisingly capsizing. Right now I'm realizing that I wanna be the hungry waves and not the sinking ship; the sharp harpoon and not unfortunate Moby **** I wanna be the brick instead of the window pane; I wanna be the ****** sword and not the bleeding slain. So the inferiority complex that's been harrowingly ingrained inside of my needlessly idle brain can **** off once again, because I'm gonna be the poet now, not the reader, page, nor pen.

35

time heals all wounds and i overestimated the process as a straight progression of burn to scar but i don't feel stronger bruised, stuck messy fleshy **** up hurts to touch trauma reopened and stitches split some days gashes slashes rips some days smooth skin i want to get over it

0

Mar 28, 2016

Mar 28, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC

men don't protect you anymore

time heals all wounds and i overestimated the process as a straight progression of burn to scar but i don't feel stronger bruised, stuck messy fleshy **** up hurts to touch trauma reopened and stitches split some days gashes slashes rips some days smooth skin i want to get over it

11

don't lock my car when i go to the lake talking about hell with people who believe only in heaven stars twinkle in the sky flowers in their eyes lying on our backs in the water side by side

0

Mar 28, 2016

Mar 28, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC

part 2

don't lock my car when i go to the lake talking about hell with people who believe only in heaven stars twinkle in the sky flowers in their eyes lying on our backs in the water side by side

6

i don't lock my car when i go to the lake we lay in the water, bodies warm, safe we talk about heaven and God and man bellies up to the world, our backs in the sand i remember the clouds and ripples on skin father, son, and holy ghost within me i don't know what to believe except for everything i am calm and there is no storm

0

Mar 7, 2016

Mar 7, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC

christmas day

i don't lock my car when i go to the lake we lay in the water, bodies warm, safe we talk about heaven and God and man bellies up to the world, our backs in the sand i remember the clouds and ripples on skin father, son, and holy ghost within me i don't know what to believe except for everything i am calm and there is no storm

8

god please guide me i am trying to be less messy but i am writing with a shaky hand

0

Sep 1, 2015

Sep 1, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC

penmanship

god please guide me i am trying to be less messy but i am writing with a shaky hand

1

You are running through the woods and the simple act of breathing reminds you that you alone are not whole. You have a gnawing urge a shaking, painful need to intake breathe. Your lungs are hollow and you cannot exist without the aid of the thundering world that surrounds your body. Leaves rustle at your feet but there is nothing alive within them; it is spring, but still early in the season, all of the branches of the trees hang limp and bare and gray and cold. Everything is quiet and only slightly sweet smelling-- you are reminded that your life, however vaguely synonymous with your soul, is the fire of a candle goldish-yellow fragile flickering and nestled tightly between your vital organs, sprouting delicately out of your aorta, and homed only by your ribcage. You probably think that it is an overly generic metaphor, but I am going to use it anyway. You are reminded that although this earth takes in the carbon dioxide you exhale and in return seeps life into you at the pace of a heartbeat, one sudden violent shudder could take it all away. And I don't want to be alone. I am reminded that this poem is supposed to be about you. But hey, who cares, I'll take everything sweet and powerful and pretty and deep and spin it into something of a self-portrait. It doesn't matter how messy or wordy or nonsensical it is, I can just slap an Instagram filter on it and call it good. Because according to people who aren't us, that's what my generation does. But I do not think that technology is shameful. Maybe the internet gave me Stockholm syndrome, but hey, I don't care, I like it. I do not understand the resent towards everything modern, like: selfies, iPhones, social media, the polio vaccine, the spread of legal marriage equality, or the continuous, grappling, and rejuvenated fight against institutionalized racism (something our predecessors never could quite stomp out). We are a candlelight that can never be put out. God graced me with 20 million nerve endings (I know because I googled it) and a whole heap of flickering atoms running from my fugly toes to the tips of jittery fingers so that I may feel and express myself. I'll be ****** if I take that for granted. This is the New Romanticism-- penned out with two hammering thumbs on a touch screen. Hell, maybe I'm the new Nietzsche. Everything that I can experience has the potential to be beautiful. From pointless technological meandering to the raw and flourishing earth that brushes up against my skin. It is all worthy of note for it comprises the miraculous euphoria that is human nature and human life. Maybe everything that I write and feel and think and experience and believe in is all petty and for naught because I am a teenage girl and nothing but. However, the universe at chance collided altogether in a smash to bring about a world that sustains my very individual personal life, and mankind created laptop computers, so if even miracles are possible, I'd like to be a little more optimistic than that. But this isn't a poem about that. This is a poem about running and breathing and living through the woods with you. Not escaping, not fleeing, just running and believing and being. I think we're going to make it. I think we're going to make it just fine.

0

Apr 28, 2015

Apr 28, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC

stream of consciousness

You are running through the woods and the simple act of breathing reminds you that you alone are not whole. You have a gnawing urge a shaking, painful need to intake breathe. Your lungs are hollow and you cannot exist without the aid of the thundering world that surrounds your body. Leaves rustle at your feet but there is nothing alive within them; it is spring, but still early in the season, all of the branches of the trees hang limp and bare and gray and cold. Everything is quiet and only slightly sweet smelling-- you are reminded that your life, however vaguely synonymous with your soul, is the fire of a candle goldish-yellow fragile flickering and nestled tightly between your vital organs, sprouting delicately out of your aorta, and homed only by your ribcage. You probably think that it is an overly generic metaphor, but I am going to use it anyway. You are reminded that although this earth takes in the carbon dioxide you exhale and in return seeps life into you at the pace of a heartbeat, one sudden violent shudder could take it all away. And I don't want to be alone. I am reminded that this poem is supposed to be about you. But hey, who cares, I'll take everything sweet and powerful and pretty and deep and spin it into something of a self-portrait. It doesn't matter how messy or wordy or nonsensical it is, I can just slap an Instagram filter on it and call it good. Because according to people who aren't us, that's what my generation does. But I do not think that technology is shameful. Maybe the internet gave me Stockholm syndrome, but hey, I don't care, I like it. I do not understand the resent towards everything modern, like: selfies, iPhones, social media, the polio vaccine, the spread of legal marriage equality, or the continuous, grappling, and rejuvenated fight against institutionalized racism (something our predecessors never could quite stomp out). We are a candlelight that can never be put out. God graced me with 20 million nerve endings (I know because I googled it) and a whole heap of flickering atoms running from my fugly toes to the tips of jittery fingers so that I may feel and express myself. I'll be ****** if I take that for granted. This is the New Romanticism-- penned out with two hammering thumbs on a touch screen. Hell, maybe I'm the new Nietzsche. Everything that I can experience has the potential to be beautiful. From pointless technological meandering to the raw and flourishing earth that brushes up against my skin. It is all worthy of note for it comprises the miraculous euphoria that is human nature and human life. Maybe everything that I write and feel and think and experience and believe in is all petty and for naught because I am a teenage girl and nothing but. However, the universe at chance collided altogether in a smash to bring about a world that sustains my very individual personal life, and mankind created laptop computers, so if even miracles are possible, I'd like to be a little more optimistic than that. But this isn't a poem about that. This is a poem about running and breathing and living through the woods with you. Not escaping, not fleeing, just running and believing and being. I think we're going to make it. I think we're going to make it just fine.

91

Most of our cells replace themselves when they die and maybe we should do the same. Cut your hair short and dye it whenever you feel sad. Peel away the foil strips and every layer of pigment; imagine heaviness leaving your body, become lighter like each newly bleached strand. Run your fingers through it in the shower however many times it takes. Know that the chestnut locks he balled in his fists with a sickly smile are no longer yours. They are sitting idly in the trash bin. They are whirring down the drain. You are standing idly in the shower. You are staring down the drain. You have surreptitiously (and repeatedly, nearly religiously) scrubbed your body clean of each and every remaining cell that didn't die of natural causes and then renew itself in a way you couldn't yet. This skin is yours and yours alone now. This skin is wet. This skin is bare. This skin is yours. Bang your head against the bathroom wall. Feel the lights flicker away. Encourage the neurons to flicker away. Brain cells are the only cells that last a lifetime without replacing themselves.

0

Jun 8, 2014

Jun 8, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC

on real-time reincarnation

Most of our cells replace themselves when they die and maybe we should do the same. Cut your hair short and dye it whenever you feel sad. Peel away the foil strips and every layer of pigment; imagine heaviness leaving your body, become lighter like each newly bleached strand. Run your fingers through it in the shower however many times it takes. Know that the chestnut locks he balled in his fists with a sickly smile are no longer yours. They are sitting idly in the trash bin. They are whirring down the drain. You are standing idly in the shower. You are staring down the drain. You have surreptitiously (and repeatedly, nearly religiously) scrubbed your body clean of each and every remaining cell that didn't die of natural causes and then renew itself in a way you couldn't yet. This skin is yours and yours alone now. This skin is wet. This skin is bare. This skin is yours. Bang your head against the bathroom wall. Feel the lights flicker away. Encourage the neurons to flicker away. Brain cells are the only cells that last a lifetime without replacing themselves.

43

I love the way you spit me out like chewing tobacco; I hope I rot your miserable jaw and you never kiss another girl with your swollen tongue again.

0

Jun 6, 2014

Jun 6, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC

habits

I love the way you spit me out like chewing tobacco; I hope I rot your miserable jaw and you never kiss another girl with your swollen tongue again.

10

To me, you have always been a reflex as natural as vomiting, coughing, and sneezing (albeit more pleasant— sometimes). Somewhere in my medulla oblongata, something is telling me to love you but I suppose that something might be tainted by a ghastly neurological disorder because this just isn’t working out.

0

May 12, 2014

May 12, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC

biological break-up poem

To me, you have always been a reflex as natural as vomiting, coughing, and sneezing (albeit more pleasant— sometimes). Somewhere in my medulla oblongata, something is telling me to love you but I suppose that something might be tainted by a ghastly neurological disorder because this just isn’t working out.

13

The parasympathetic nervous system is responsible for regulations unconsciously transpiring within the organs and the glands of the body. Such as: urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and lacrimation (noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin. from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’). It’s why I cry even when I don’t want to. You are the parasympathetic nervous system. The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system is responsible for the mobilization of the fight-or-flight response and constantly maintaining homeostasis within the body. It acts rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and the necessary and critical ability to suddenly escape on pulsing legs or cling to survival through brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles and dilated pupils. It’s why you live even when you don’t want to. I am the sympathetic nervous system. The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems are two of three essential nervous systems which compose the autonomic nervous system (a part of the peripheral nervous system) that manages involuntary functions of the body. Such as: swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and heart rate (noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’. usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you). Individually these two systems oppose but compliment each other like our hands do— pressed together and omitting equal force; veins meeting at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise. You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to breath, love, sweat, and live. I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you but grudgingly willing to fight you and ready to leave. From the deepest lower half of my brainstem and from every nerve in my cycling body, I’m sorry. From all of my chromaffin cells and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian, I am sorry.

0

May 12, 2014

May 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC

don't ask me what a submandibular ganglian is because i won't know (a biologically correct love letter)

The parasympathetic nervous system is responsible for regulations unconsciously transpiring within the organs and the glands of the body. Such as: urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and lacrimation (noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin. from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’). It’s why I cry even when I don’t want to. You are the parasympathetic nervous system. The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system is responsible for the mobilization of the fight-or-flight response and constantly maintaining homeostasis within the body. It acts rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and the necessary and critical ability to suddenly escape on pulsing legs or cling to survival through brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles and dilated pupils. It’s why you live even when you don’t want to. I am the sympathetic nervous system. The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems are two of three essential nervous systems which compose the autonomic nervous system (a part of the peripheral nervous system) that manages involuntary functions of the body. Such as: swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and heart rate (noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’. usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you). Individually these two systems oppose but compliment each other like our hands do— pressed together and omitting equal force; veins meeting at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise. You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to breath, love, sweat, and live. I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you but grudgingly willing to fight you and ready to leave. From the deepest lower half of my brainstem and from every nerve in my cycling body, I’m sorry. From all of my chromaffin cells and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian, I am sorry.

67