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Poems

Evergreen Pines May 2014
No one loves me, no one cares about me.
No one sees me, I feel like they shouldn't.
No one pays attention to me, like a rotten fruit.
The world seems to treat me like I'm unimportant.
I think I am truly unimportant, I wish I was dead.
Stop talking! Let's get something straight here.
You are not unimportant! Don't ever say *that
!
You are on planet Earth for a reason.
The reason I'm here is to feel this way.
So other people will look at me and feel better for themselves.
There here to treat me like dirt, so they'll feel good, and not like me.

NEVER! No one is here just to suffer! Stop putting yourself down.
You can do things in this world no one else can.
All I can do is feel useless and unimportant.
Stop treating yourself like ****, 'cause I know you're not.
Can't you see it? You're here for a reason.
And that reason is not to feel like this.
You have a gift, this gift no one else has.
You have a better affect on people than most.
So please, don't leave too soon.
some people just can't see they're important. the thing is everyone's important, we are all apart of something bigger than us: the circle of life.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
Mikey Pooler Aug 2016
This is the story of A boy whose name is unimportant, and to tell this story we'll have to go back in time.

To Samantha, A name which left foot prints  in his mind so enormous that he oftentimes could only remember his own in portions.

See? Such a name is why this boys name is so unimportant, and as for his story? Well we'll have to go back to a time where in his mind, a sense of time is precious and rare to find. Even his sense of mind is torn to portions.

Yet another of the boys increasing misfortunes from Samantha, and her foot prints ever so enormous.

So when the boy decides to try to go back in time to recall the crime which left him oh so distorted, when a robber bearing Samantha for a name rushed into his endorphins. To a time when his cerebral cortex was a door, and a name was its door henge.

He says;

"To tell this story of mine we must go back to a time when- well... when the colors first ceased to shine"
Mikey the Poet

A Poetic Story: PART I
(A Boy Whose Name Is Unimportant)


I'll be releasing this story in parts.