spencer-dennison
Truly, this world is a feeble place if we must make this meager shelter to hide our brilliance... / / My name is Spencer. Although this name has not brought me pride lately, I prefer it over the other names I have been called. I don't write poetry for catharsis or stress relief, I write it so I can perfect my craft and learn more about myself... as well as the people who appreciate this dying art. / If you have any questions, or simply wish for a chat, please do not hesitate to message me. Whether it be simple introductions or philosophy, I'm nothing if not social.
In a better world...
every TV, in every house hold,
comes with it's very own blindfold
so that the children won't be able to see
the horrible, bloated beast
that media has come to be.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
Time and time again
I have raised a hand
or a fist, or a blade,
to destroy this thing I love
and all the things I've made.
Perhaps it is this skin,
that encompasses me
like an unwanted lover,
that makes me see these flaws
in one thing or another.
It is most likely me,
not you or they,
who created this unholy rage
that has made me hate this art
and set fire, not pen, to the page.
The foolish churls
and putrid youths
who plague and prowl these hallways
who abuse this sacred art and leave it
lost among the daily craze.
While I may applaud your work
and hand out digital hearts,
there are others amongst the crowd
who pervert the most basic concept
in any way that they are allowed.
I swear to the eternal void,
to the primeval seas of blackness,
to all that will ever last
that if this kind of beauty can be ruined,
then we all should die, quick and fast.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
There is just something I want you to know.
We knew that we would never be great,
we would never feel fire in our heart
when we congregate
in the libraries and alleyways.
We have lost our edge,
our static charge, our blaze,
and it beyond us recover it.
We were amazing at something
that the world had no patience for,
so in those moments when we shone
the world chose to ignore.
Now we have lost our flair,
we will never have another encore...
Because we were spectacular at something
and it has rotted away
like so many of our hopes
and aspirations
and this tired procrastination
has gotten us nowhere.
We made a world, for every and anyone
who chose to share it with us...
but it has drained away
from the land and sea,
now us tired artists
must join reality.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
In a place where everything and everyone
is shallow,
your eyes alone are left with a depth to them
that no-one could have ever guessed.
In a place where hard work is an excuse
to be superior,
you value interior in a way
quite ulterior.
In a mirror you're just as good as them,
but your beauty will stem
from things other than your physicality.
It comes from the fact that you make happiness
a reality.
The totality of your devotion
to something as simple as a smile
makes every second spent with you,
instantly worthwhile.
Sure, there have been guys,
who have had their own ideas.
Used lies like a blade
to cut their way into your heart,
but you've grown wise since then.
You've been hurt before,
but your determination to stay happy
is worth more than any man could be.
I'm only around you three hours a week,
but your smile shines through any attempt I have
at keeping my attitude bleak.
If I can be completely honest,
you leave me absolutely star-struck
and it was just my luck
that I was born four years before you.
Our worlds run parallel from my view,
but the way I can connect heart and mind with you
is a treasure that cannot be reproduced.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
We watch time fly out
our window sill
and yet we still
try to capture this moment
hold it
as if holding it
will keep it here""
but it sinks into the atmosphere
the moment you let go
and you must let go
because the flame that is smothered dies
and there will be no rise
from ashes, no cries for help
no morse code dots and dashes
there is no running
not now, not ever
and you don't need to be
the most strong
or the most clever
you just need to be you
because you are a miracle
in a world that is content
to let science explain everything
we don't need a flow chart
to know the heart
we need faith
not in gods or crosses
or wins and losses
but in our own reflection
not self correction
in us
we
are
all we are
and all we are is
the answer to a question
we have been asking ourselves
since the last time we felt lost
since our lullabies became embossed
on text books and bibles
since we were held liable
for the actions of generations past
we are not the last
but we can be the first
since the day we were cursed
with this desire to be more
in a society rotten to the core
and no amount of rhyming
or perfect
...
timing
will cure that,
we all have our own tin-foil hat,
but if someone is trying to read
your mind
think something worth a ****
stop trying to find meaning,
stop preening,
stop everything you are doing
and simply be.
I am no authority
on living a good life.
Grief and Suffering are my in-laws
because I married strife
but if you believe a single thing
that I ever say
believe that you are not stuck,
there is always another way.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
I am a poet,
connected by a network of poets
to thousands of poets...
but we are all still lonely
because we live inside our own heads.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
We are but leaves upon the wind,
folly is our master and we, the slave,
never believing our story's been spinned
until we go smiling into our grave.
Our bliss is our youth, our youth, our bliss
and we revel without knowing why
but there is no morale to all of this,
choice truly is the greatest lie.
None us will ever reach the stars
or the heavens or anything up above,
we serve our lust in clubs and bars
but we go our lives without serving love.
...and if just rhymes could change the Earth,
maybe then, we would have some worth.
But we will not find it, here nor far,
because worthless?
That is what we truly are.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
I've been teaching people
how to be poets.
Now, even to me,
this sounds like canned ********
But I believe that there is more to it.
It sounds so elitist to think
that you were just born with poetry
in your heart and mind.
That it could ever be so hard to find
inner meaning where there is none.
Even love is an illusion
the same way color never existed
outside the eye,
your beauty never existed
outside my heart.
Now before I start,
let me go back to square one.
I find it hard to believe that someone
can't be something just because... they aren't.
Poetry, like all art, is a skill
and like all art, you don't need to be good.
No-one is judging your art
unless you ask them to
and if it ends up in front of their face,
you've asked.
It's a skill, you get better and worse,
good days and bad days,
but some people just need to realize
what poetry really, really is.
It's not about rhyming, or even sounding good.
It's about meaning.
What's the deal with this flower?
This flower is art.
It's a piece of chlorophyll, who cares?
Because the flower is beautiful.
What makes the flower beautiful?
*Because I choose to believe that this flower is more
than what my eye percieves.*
Boy, this art **** sounds like
a bunch of crap.
It really is.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
"Do not ask for whom the bell tolls
It tolls for thee"
As if all rights and wrongs were just
a memory.
We set ourselves out to sea
in an ocean of imperfections
where the only way to see inside ourselves
is through vivisections,
we watch science explain everything for us
while concepts like faith and love
sink into the background
and we cannot hear the answers
over the sound of cannons firing
because we throw money at problems requiring
care instead of denier
but we still think we know where the heart is.
It's right there,
in that empty chest
in which you keep your best
hopes of ever knowing love again
in a world where we only make money so we can spend.
There will be no exodus,
purgatory is a breeze next to this,
because we bend our children's backs
like pipe-cleaners
just because that's what our parents
did to us,
it's been about growing up
it's been about moving out,
with a rebel shout
we barrel towards the future
because there is no turning anywhere back
because the train-track wasn't made
with brakes in mind
and if, out of all this, there is even a lesson to find
it's not in textbooks or written in flesh-tone ink
on the back of hands,
THINK
we've pushed ourselves past the brink
in the name of progress
with everything always being
no more, no less
we cannot digress
because we are hellbound
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC