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All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Each ear another one to lie to
Each mouth another one to feed
We're all but a statistic
And a very ugly one indeed

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Hypocrites in their pedestals
As the sloths complain
The truth is hypothetical
And the self-righteous disdain

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

The sky scraping towers
The roads of traffic and rush
Beauty is only in the papers
And the tip of the artist's brush

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Cold hearts shame the winter
Causing more damage than flood
We are but the earth's splinter
And we hunger for blood

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Tomorrow is but a conjecture
Today is what we're worth
Will our children even have a future?
Or have we aborted them by birth?

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

We have guts for feeling
We have eyes to see
But indifference is more appealing
I hope it's just me

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names
Rj  Sep 2015
Forgettable
Rj Sep 2015
Okay. I am going to talk now.
And I'm not gonna be poetic
Rhyme, or make lines or stanzas. I'm just gonna talk. Because this is MY life, and MY opinion and this is a website where I can get out MY feelings. And I shouldn't have to feel like putting up a filter. I don't feel all that special, not standing next to some people. I feel like, like I'm not someone that you'd say "wow I like your outfit" or "wow I like your voice". Because guess what. I wear lame tee shirts from football games three years ago with jean shorts because I don't have TIME or money to shop for appealing clothes to where I can express myself. I can't make an aesthetic. My parents are always telling me how much of a selfish person I used to be. So I DONT ASK for clothes anymore. If I did, it would be so out of the ordinary, the answer would be a painful no. But this isn't about clothes. It's about Never being noticed. I swear sometimes I am wearing the invisibility cloak from Harry Potter. I know quite a few people with a list TO THEIR KNEES on how many people they KNOW care about them. People they can say for SURE care about them. My list. Well you can't call two or three people a list can you? Maybe it's because I don't have those characteristics that draw people to me. I don't have that "strong presence". I don't. I am Miranda Kramer. A junior who looks more like a freshman. When I talk, people don't turn their head to look. When I speak, I find over and over again people talk over me. So, naturally, I don't talk as much as I used to. Yes, rejection is a fear of mine, and so is being ignored. Being replaceable. And YES I wrote a poem about this before, but I don't think I can stress enough that I don't have that twinkle in my eye. I don't have the cute smile that lights up the world. I can't list a single thing that makes me unique, yet I know I am. I know everyone is. But is it true or not that some people are more unique than others? Imagine a sapling. A cute, small, unique pine sapling. Now picture that sapling sitting at the root of a giant oak tree. No one sees the sapling anymore do they? Well that's how I feel compared to most everyone else. People who feel loved, who KNOW people care about you, I am so happy you have that list. I hope you keep adding to it. I'll sit here. Holding the pencil in my sweaty hand, anxious, because I can't tell if that person cares about me. Do they? Or am I forgettable? Am I forgettable? Am I? I can't really tell anymore. I can't really tell anymore
Don't read too deep into it. It's just an entry, I haven't written like this in a while. A shoutout to MF for getting me started on this rant with a great poem recently added. Anyways this isn't really for others, it's more for me
VENUS62 Jul 2014
Swaymvar- Wedding! With Translation in English

Kavi, tha khayalon me khoya
Dard-e -dil soch ke roya

Tab Apsara sundarsi hui prakat
Ahista se gayee Kavi ke nikat

Likhte kyun ** kavita hamesha udaas
Racho koi rachna jisme ** harsh-o- ulhas

Ghatne wali hai ghatna avismarniya
Reh jayega baki sub kuch asmarniya

Aney wali hai baraat aaj raat
Yahi kuch gyarah- barah baje ke baad

Chaand ke saath hogi chandni
Sitare layenge jhilmil roshni

Indra layenge varsha ko saath
Varun ayenge thamey badalon ka haath

Suraj layenge bas kiran ek
Teeno mil sajayenge indradhanush anek


Draupadi ke saath honge punch pandav
Shiv bhi karenge nritya tandav

Agni khud karenge havan
Halka sa jhonka denge Pavan

Patton se banegi chudiyan hari
Maang mein mitti hogi lal sindoori

Aasman mein cha jayega kala-neela sa rang
Krishna jab nachenge radha ke sang

Rachegi khoob ras leela wahan
Dekha na hoga kabhi ye jahan

Pakwan har ek hoga anvesh
Bhojan hoga bahut hi vishesh

Srishti banegi ati ati -sundar
Rachegi jab
Ambar aur dharti ka swayamvar!



Translation The Wedding!
The poet was lost in thought
Heartbroken and distraught

When appeared an Apsara ethereal
She touched his shoulder lightly

Why do you write poems full of sorrow
Do write some poems replete with joy

About to happen is an event memorable
Everything else will be forgettable

The bridegroom will ride on a chariot light
Around eleven-twelve tonight

The moon will swing in with his moonlight
The stars will twinkle on their own shining bright

Indra will bring along the rains
Varun will hold the clouds in rein

The sun will be present as a single ray
The trio will create a rainbow array

Draupadi will come with five pandav
Shiv will swirl to his Dance Tandav

Agni himself will do the Havan
Gentle breeze will be supplied by Pavan

The bangles will be made from leaves green
The color of the earth will be vermilon red

The sky will be decked in black and blue
When Krishna will dance with Radha his beloved true

There will be celebrations lavish
Mortals will be left in disbelief

The food will indeed be delectable
Each dish will be a creative spectacle!

Creation will be at her very best
When the earth and sky
will be in their union blessed.
Awesome Annie Jul 2014
I don't know why you're so painful to me.
Breaking me down,
every time you come and go.
I'm regret to you,
a sore spot on your heart.
You only see your past when you look at me,
A reflection of the destruction your leaving caused.
Ultimate ruin in your wake.
I can never shake these shoes,
Worn Maryjanes of a girl who doesn't know how to stop loving you.
I reach for you and you pull away,
So I stopped wishing,
Learning that it never has been about me.
You called today,
6 years of absence leaving me hollow.
I don't want it,
This time I just can't.
I don't know why you're always so painful to me,
Or how I can be so forgettable.
Arlene Bozich Jul 2012
There are secrets I tell to the demons in my heart
Secrets that had torn me of peace long before they contaminated the air.
My mind screams to shed these weights, the crown of thorns sitting on my brain.
But my lying tongue holds these flames for beings who care not for fire.
Every whisper in the dark echoes these trifles
Every breath exhaled sings of my malice
To my hate, I beg it to leave. Attract other things to replace it.
But my limits are human. Though I strive for wings, only arms remain.
Bare backed and lashed with my own whips.
So I’ll spit on the ground; masochistic to the core.
Dear demons, do not betray my goodness to these angels.
Let them think me, as you, demonic. And therefore, forgettable.
prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.

soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart

chills.

his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.

moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.
sorry michael.
raw with love Nov 2015
(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.
Gods, let me write a forgettable poem
Let it be sweet and wonderful
Lightly stroking the hearts of all who read
Let them forget my name and all the words
It will be sweet and wonderful
It will change something in the world
Subtle little shift toward paradise
Forgotten and saved
And let the poem bubble up everywhere
Whenever it is needed
Able to uplift and heal souls
And then the reader will remember
When she read it last
What she was like back then
And be confronted with how she’s grown
Let it be read and forgotten
Let it be read and its writer forgotten
Maybe it will be one of my last
Or one of my best
~~~~~
Like a flowering tree
Life has its many seasons
We have been told this many times
The best things in life are free
You don’t need reasons
To feel a certain way sometimes
How hot things get, they cool off
How cold winter is, how much life spring brings
You’ll be okay because you don’t have a choice
Excuse me as I cough
I think it helps me when I sing
But no one likes this poet’s singing voice
Forgettable Prayer by Jonathan Barry Sullivan is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.facebook.com/ClayFox.
Anon C Dec 2012
A world so vast, so many just like me
Same brown eyes in an eternal sea
Similar story so many have danced
My memory forgotten with a glance

Not so special, easily replaced
A soul marked as such, utterly defaced
I find me so unremarkable, so dull
So much so that I am utterly forgettable
pixels  Nov 2015
Forgettable
pixels Nov 2015
I've been a million things in my life,
And worn a million faces like masks in an eighteenth century opera house where they tell you to scream like you mean it and whispers are never heard because the crowd is already on their feet and the roses smell too sweet.

But today I wear nothing but my ego,
My ego,
So Jungian, Freudian, the sought-after prize of a million men who won't ever compete with my constellation scars or the sharp sound of my teeth clicking together in a cruel grin.

You hate girls that strut like they're concrete because you broke them all before,
Because they're lies and false gods and you swear that youth today are all spat words and flying ***** not given.

I'm not youth today,
I'm an age-old god of war and pride and I'll cut you down like a whisper in the wind if you try my patience...

Because what is death if not being forgotten?
I'll forget you, if you try my patience.
I've forgotten a million fragile egos and I'll crumble your concrete into pixelated dust like a million tiny claps in an eighteenth century opera house that can't tell if the blood on my hands is real.

I've been a million things in my life,
But I'm finally the one that matters: unforgettable.
Ben Skross  Apr 2014
Forgettable
Ben Skross Apr 2014
you said your most defining term is forgettable
thats not true
becuase i just cant seem to get you
out
of
my
mind
aviisevil  Mar 2018
blue room
aviisevil Mar 2018
my breath is blue
cold and forgettable
in this dark room
and with my eyes closed
composed of a mind
and all its follies,
that I cannot switch off;

i am lost, yes,
bless'd with a life
i never would have
known otherwise,

of minutes, mountains and
stones, wise men; a home
and sun rise,

here on this rock
me and so many like me
will die, pretending we
never would,

consuming blood and wood
even burning the forest down
'tis his kingdom, filled with
people bad and good,

some mad and filled with
scars and broken days
then there's that who
has no need for a place,
some wear stars and some
wear no face, some are meant
to die, some meant to stay

some go away never to
come back, some find
grey days soothing as they
pass by, some live
in good-byes, and some dye
themselves, some don't cry,

some won't die, and we'd
watch them live forever,
whilst we break our lies,

i live the lies too, yes,
but that's more bless'd, in
this storm of illusion,
outside this dark room
where i bleed away bits of
me, everytime i step out,

loud noises and the clock,
to break me down,

silence louder than words,
empty air for me to drown
trapped in a circle 'round
my neck,

eyes to dream me a crown,
and a mind for the countless
worthless things i've found
gagged and bound,
in the deepest layers
miles deeper than my skin
sinking, and inking my
breath blue.
Kaitlyn McEowen May 2013
And it hurts, feeling like your forgettable.
Feeling like if you leave the room, coming back doesn’t matter.
I have to throw my hands in your face for you to remember me.  
You said I was funny, you said you were thinking of me until the new toy was in stock.
She’s bigger, she’s better, she’s shiny and new, you know I’d probably choose that too.
But when she smiles, all you see are the gears, working to keep her head intact, the heart is a ***** secured with glue and plastic.
And when she laughs at your jokes yeah she still looks pretty but doesn’t know what you said and then sits quietly.
Just so politely and shiny and new.

— The End —