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Estherzz21 Apr 2015
Stillness within tranquil,
Movements within clamour;
In mixture she stood there,
Introvert she names.

Gazing and perceiving,
Simply fascinating;
But residing in her world,
was nothing but hollow.

Catching her insight,
Diverting towards him;
telling herself,
that she never matters.

Self-pity, she would say,
But I say strength;
Pathetic, she labelled,
Thou I say brave.

She was simply a girl,
Malicious was an unknown;
Through dawn and dusk,
She became a title.

A title she called,
The Introverts.
smiling as herself
Luz Apr 2019
When introverts ruled the world,
Everyone went home after work on Fridays.
Traffic improved on the streets and highways.
Road rage was a thing of the past.
Poetry sites exploded with new members.
Sales of books and video games went up.
Studies in philosophy, psychology, art, music and writing went up.
Socializing and gossip at work subsided and production went up.
Abusive empty charterers were cited.
No loud music or parties that keep neighbors up were aloud.
Conversations were no longer one sided.
Those who rarely spoke finally were heard.
Classrooms had more participation, rather than the usual
loud mouth students taking over, making the shy students quiet and withdrawn.
Being an extrovert became frowned upon requiring therapy to learn to control any spontaneous outbursts of loud talking and rash energetic forms of behavior.

Introverted experts wrote articles and books on how to educate and control constant chatter and the desire to outshine others.
Anxiety went down for the introverts and also the use of alcohol, tranquilizers and sleeping aids.
On the other hand extroverts became bored and had to learn ways to keep themselves happy and amused.

Psychologists saw many extroverted patients, who suffered from boredom, frustration, sadness and suicidal thoughts.
Therapist recommended the extroverts to meditate, take new hobbies, crafts and poetry to keep themselves sane.
Many also had to take classes on hesitation, over thinking, being more in their heads and how to conduct fewer but deep conversations over shallow ones.  Extroverts had to find secluded places in order to conduct themselves in a loud manner with other extroverts.

Only introverted presidents and government officials were chosen.  These new presidents and government officials were sensitive, intuitive, empathetic and conscientious towards the well being of the citizens and the earth.
Wars were only read about in history books.
The peace and quiet that rained on the planet was such a welcome relief for the introverted citizens of earth.
Please take no offense dear extroverts, this is all just in fun.
Had a hard time sleeping so I started writing last night and it got a little
too long for a poem.
Aoife  Aug 2016
About Introverts
Aoife Aug 2016
the nights you call lonely
are the nights i spend
reading and writing and drawing
and loving my own company
i enjoy dreaming of possibilities
and laying in complete silence
you see, my mind is so loud
louder than the party you're at tonight
and for me that is enough
i balance it out by being quiet,
by producing shambles of poetry
and endless jumbles of words
to try and understand
that it is okay to love the silence
and the mystery of who i am
you find yourself in bright lights
and loud music
i find myself in the dark
we have been afraid of our whole lives
it is the darkness and the silence
that make you so scared of us
but we are simply introverts
trying to fit into a world made for you
while you are dancing your heart out
ours are pounding in pride
as we proofread our writing for the 100th time
your open arms and our open minds
embrace in harmony
you see, i started writing us instead of me
because i know i am not alone
on these nights you call lonely
i call lovely
Annika J Dec 2018
Family members crowd around
I try to dodge the questions
How is school
How is dance
How is the harp
I don't want to talk
I just grab some food
And run away
From the noise
The questions
The lack of space
Or I would
But my mom won't let me

Even the King of the World
The Lord of Lords
The one who we celebrate
This time of year
Came as a baby
In a stable
In the middle of
Nowhere, Israel
(Okay, Bethlehem
But still)

Can't I just catch a break?


Oh well.

At least there are cookies.
Reveur Skye Feb 2016
Cats are like introverts,
emotional and withdrawn rather rude and curt.
Dogs are like extroverts,
crazy and mischievous, laughing through their hurt.
They both are the same, underneath the masks they wear,
trying to keep others from knowing their cares.
Becca Lansman Feb 2017
The lump rises in my throat—
A blood clot—choking on my dinner
I press replay:

Our plans,
leaving home,
asking you about the weather.

I get my car washed two times.
I clip my fingernails till they bleed.
I make my bed for the first time.

I press replay again.

Escape route.

You talk yourself in and out of reason. You remind yourself of the comforts of solidarity. The warmth of an empty room.

You remind yourself of the king-size bed holding only one body.
Wondering if you could ever love someone enough to share the space,
To open yourself from the seems, rip out the comfort you have grown to hold synonym for your name.

You rewind
Press play
Fast forward

Planning the empty questions you will recite.
Hovering your finger over the delete button.
Your breathing accelerates.

You press pause.

Remembering it is just lunch— a casual hello to an old friend.
Not a ****** or a robbery—a simple goodbye.

"You are strong enough" you repeat over and over until you almost believe it.

press replay—

You are ok.
Poetic Thoughts Nov 2015
“Introverts, man. We’re weird sometimes. Like, “I love you, but I need to go over here by myself right now.”
I'm such an introvert. #introvert #weird #solitude #bymyself
lilah raethe Feb 2014
there is a scene
where the wind cant be kept from the ocean
and introverts
are sitting
they are fishing at the end of a moon
and artificially lit

the only thing they have caught so far
is a banjo shark
they blamed each other

i am out there with them
i am reading a book about humanity
contemplating hope
and simplicity

where there is a world
that people pick a book off
their shelves
and say
it's yours!

or pull out a drawer full of pens
and say
take your pick.

there are places
where people are nice.
there is hope
in the tiniest glimmer of light.
(true story)
Dánï Feb 2014
How does it feel to lose yourself,
To feel yourself oozing through your pores and pouring into a shell?

These restless nights are deviously common,
My eyes have gone dry, no more bawling.

I lay here and wonder how did I miss the dead end,
Why did I sprint so purposely with no message to send?

These days you feel ashamed of the right, proud of the wrong.
My thoughts race, there's no time to process them,
I don't think they belong..

I swear I try my hardest to make you all proud,
I gave up, it's hard when you feel all alone in a crowd.

These people don't deserve me, you, us.
You and I confide in them and they ruin our non-resilient trust.

When you're alone, who's there to disappointment and vice versa?
Who's there to make you feel small and destroy ya?
No one

jack of spades Jul 2015
I'm an extrovert.
We aren't really romanticized in pop culture. Chances are,
your protagonist is a cute introverted girl who has
everyone secretly swooning over her,
but her best friend sidekick is outgoing and talkative.
We autorelate "extrovert" to red solo cups and heavy synthesized bass lines and...
frat boys.
The unpleasant, obnoxious kind. (The ninety-nine percent.)
I guess it's understandable sometimes to see where you're coming from with this assumption, but
let's learn to revise.
Introverts recharge by being alone, but if I'm in a group and suddenly find myself faced with an empty home,
it's like all the oxygen has been ****** from my lungs and shattered my soul.
Being alone means thinking too much and we all know what thinking too much does (--so maybe extroverts need loud music and red solo cups--)
I don't get how someone finds it refreshing, silence and being stuck in your own head, but that's probably because I'm not an introvert and you're not an extrovert and I'd rather have a body than a body pillow next to me in my unmade bed. I like people.
When kids are wearing t-shirts proclaiming the opposite, I get it.
It's pop culture,
it's in to be out but being by myself is when I'm most out of it.
It's hard for me to consistently text you back but believe me when I feel like my brain is about to collapse I'd like to lessen the collateral damage.
After that, I'll start up ten different conversations with three different friends but all of them are introverts whose sleep schedules are inverted from mine, triple check the time, see it with your own eyes, life keeps tick
ticking by and I feel stuck on the sidelines.
I forget to feed myself sometimes (most nights.)
I'm a people person dragged into my own mind that
I forget how to take care of myself.
I'm a people person who can't make friends last to save my life,
forget it if they're already acquainted.
All my friends think they're hated by all my other friends--
You two don't know each other, totally polar social circles, but I know each of you like pieces of my soul,
and I make Horcruxes not from ****** but from memories of late nights and falling asleep on the phone,
out of control
we need something to hold,
so we falsify lasting lovers to have some control over,
like empty stomachs that can't leave us until we say so,
like long showers that can't end until we decide it's us, not them, we should take a break from each other for a while,
like bed sheets that act as open arms holding us until we toss and turn into sleep and asking us to stay a little bit longer in the mornings.
I'm an extrovert.
I can't really explain exactly what that means to me specifically or simply,
it's just that being alone makes me feel lonely,
and nothing on the Internet will ever help me with that.
Martin Narrod Feb 2014
The Checkout Line

I wish to speak with you
ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

The words and meanings you carry in your pants, the pick-pocket steals your hopes from time.
and the visions of empty trash receptacles
with their late evening drunken lovers' bouts, at restless end tables. And the bums with their ******* attitudes **** covered clothes, and soiled minds

the clarity of the curbside drunk, picking up shades of filtered cigarettes of twilight scandalous
pickup lovers in their evening best.

And to talk with you ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

They're Green Beret head ornaments
detailing the porcelain platforms of Delft
Lining up for one last line to carry them into another faded sunrise at dawn's forgotten memory of yester night
and they walk their gallows holding pride fully their flags of exalted countrymen.

The republic of teacups of literary proficiency.
Wearing the necklaces of paid tolls to an afterlife they find in the miniscule car crashes of engagement with a grinless driving mate in a neighboring car in its pass into the forethought of turned corners.
Where they befell the great disappointment of failure in the frosted eyes of their fathers' expectations.

Who carried the shame of their mother's incessant discontent through short skirts, and high heels.

Who disapproved of the **** whom wore the sneak-out-of-the-house-wear clothing line, and traveled by night over turbulent asphalt by way of sidecar through turn and turnabout hand-over-hand contracts of lover's affection, and slept in tall grasses of wet nightfall with views of San Francisco, and were trapped in the inescapable Alcatraz and Statesville of unconsenting parents and their curfews,

through trials and trails of Skittles leading to after school Doctor visits in the basement of a doting mother, whilst she sits quietly in her exclusive quilting parties with noble equities of partners in knowledge, listening to Edith Piaf and the like,

All the while condemned to time, trapped in the second hand, hand me downs of the 21st century, decades of decadent introverts with their table top unread notebooks, and old forgotten score cards, and the numbers of scholars of years past,

and to talk with you ten years from now will be my greatest pleasure, for you will be....ten year's behind.

They push the sterile elevator buttons, and descend upon the floor of scents flourishing from their crowded family rooms, only aware of distinctive flavors, in their middle eastern shades of desert gumbo,

Who speak ribbit and alfalfa until midnight of the afternoon, sharing fables of slaughtered giraffes and camels that walked from Kiev to Baghdad in a fortnight,

Who are aware the power is out, but continue to scour for candles in a dark room where candles once burned, where candle wax seals the drawers of where candles can be found. Where once sat gluttonous kings and queens in Sunday attire waiting for words of freedom from the North.

of Florence, Sochi,Shanghai
of Dempster, Foster, Lincoln
of Dodge, Ford, Shelby

Of concrete fortune tellers in 2nd story tenement blocks with hairy legs, and head lice, wearing beautiful sachets of India speaking ribbit and alfalfa.

On their unbirthdays they walk the fish tanks wearing their birthday suits to remind them who serves the food on the floors of the family room fish mongers tactics.

The old men wear gargoyles on their shoulders.

Lo! Fear has crept the glass marbles of their wisdom and fortune, blearing rocket ships and kazoos on the sidewalks of their Portuguese forefathers.

Where ancestry burns cigarette holes in the short-haired blue carpet, where Hoover breaks flood waters of insignificance across hard headed Evangelical trinities.

Who share construction techniques one early morning at four, where questions of Hammer and **** build intelligence in secondary faces of nameless twilight lovers, who possess bear blankets, and upheavals, finely wired bushes of ***** maturity. Eating *** and check, tongue and pen.

Where police caress emergency flame retardants over the fire between their legs, wielding the chauvinistic blade of comfort in the backseat of a Yellow faced driving patron.

With their innocent daughters with their nubile thighs, and malleable personalities, which require elite words and jewelry. Wearing wheat buns, Longfellow, and squire.

Holding postmarked cellular structure within their mobile anguish.

Who go curling in their showers, pushing afternoon naps and pretentious frou-frou hats over tainted friendships with their girlfriend's brothers with minimum paychecks'.

Through their narcissus and narcosis, their mirrored perceptions of medicinal scripture of Methamphetamine and elegant five-star meat.

Who amend their words with constitutional forgiveness, in their fascist cloth rampages through groves of learning strategies. And the closets, cupboards, and coins
with rubber hearts, steel *****, and gold *****,

Tall-tales of sock puppet hands with friendly sharing ******* techniques, dry with envy, colorful scabs, and coagulation of eccentric ****** endeavors, With their social lubricants and their tile feet wardrobes with B-quality Adidas and Reeboks gods of the souls of us. Who possess piceous syndromes of Ouiji boards in their parent’s basements.

When will fire burn another Bush? Spread the fire walls of Chicago, and part grocery store fields of food. Wrapping towels under the doors of smoke filled lungs, on the fingernails of a sleepover between business executives with the neoprene finish of their sons and daughters who attend finishing school, with resumes of oak furnishings,

And I long to talk with you ten years from now,
For you'll be talking ten years behind.

Who profligate their padded inventories breaking Mohammed and Hearst,
laying the pillows of cirrus minor
waiting for the rain to paint the eyes of the scriptures which waft through concrete corridors,
and scent the air with their exalted personas,

With the different channels of confusions, watching dimple past freckle, eating the palms of our tropical mental vocations to achieve purity from the indignation of those whom are contemptuous for lack of innocence in America,
this America, of lack of peace,
of America hold me,
Let me be.

Whom read the letters off music, blearing Sinatra and Krall, Manson where is your contempt?

Manson where is your manipulation of place settings?, you deserve fork and knife, the wounded commandments that regretfully fall like timber in an abandoned sanctuary of Yellowstone,
Manson, with your claws of the heart.
Manson, with your sheik vulgarity of **** cloaks exposing your ladies undercarriage,

Those who take their pets to walk the aisles of famished eyes,
allowing the dorsals of their backsides to wonder aimlessly through Vietnam and Chinaman,
holding peace of mind aware of their chemical leashes and fifteen calorie mental meals, holding hands, unaware of repercussion,

With their vivid recollections of sprinkler and slide, through dew and beyond,
Holding citrus drinks to themselves, apart from pleasure, trapped with excite from sunsets, and in-between.

Withholding reservation of tongue to lung.
Flowing ribbit and alfalfa, in the corridors of expected fragrance.

and to speak with you of ten years from now, will be a pleasure all my own, for you will be talking ten years behind.

They walked outside climbing over mountains of shrapnel, popped collars
and endless buffets of emotion,
driving Claremont all the way to art gallery premiers
and forever waited for plane crash landings
and the phone calls that never came

Glowing black and white cameras
giving modelesque perceptions to all-you-can-eat eyes
giving cigarettes endless chasms of light

Colored pavement trenches and divots
cliff note alibis
and surgery that lasted until the seamstress had gone into an
endless rest
empty cupboards

Classic stools painted with sleepless white smoke and bleached canvas rolling tobacco with the stained yellow window panes of feral tapestry and overindulgent vernacular

Like a satiated cheeseburger weeping smile simple emotion
on November the 18th celebrations
and Wisconsin out of business sales

Too much comfort, stealing switchboards from the the elderly, constantly putting gibberish into
effortless conversation.

Dormant doormats, with the greetings that never
reached as far as coffee table favelas,
arriving to homes of famished
furniture, awaiting temperate lifestyles and the window sill arguments from pedantic literacy

Silver shillings and corporate discovery clogged the persuasive
push and shove
to and from

Killing enterprise
loquacious attempt at too soon
much too soon
too soon for forever

Wall to wall post-card collages
happy reminders of the places never visited by drinks in the hands of
those received

Registered to the clouded skies of clip board artists
this arthritis of envy
of bathtub old age
wrinkled matted faces
logged with quick-fixes, anemia, and heart-break

disposed of off the streets
of youth, wheeling and wailing
rolling down striped stairs
of shock and arraignment
holding the hand rails of a wheelchair
packed away in a life

Down I-37
into the ochre autumn fallen down leaves
and left memories behind
their green Syphilis eyeglasses

weeping tumuli
mulish, furrow of beast and beyond

yelling, screaming, howling
at the prurient puerile tilling
of sheets

****** the voices of words
and vomiting the mind into the pockets of the turbulent perambulations
expelled from meat-packing
whispering condescension
and coercing adolescent obsessions
with fame, glamour, and *****

Creeping out into the naked
light of the Darger scale janitorial
closets, carrying the notorious gowns
of red wine spells, backpacks, and pins

henchmen, plaintiff, and youth

All the while
ripping at the incantations of the soul
whispering ribbit and alfalfa
in the guard-rail scars
of the dawns decadent forgotten
Kimberly Clemens Oct 2013
We change over night
As the darkness chills us to the bone
We become stiff with bitter memories
That once seemed so right

Milky twilight revealing our faces
Casts soft shadows over once pithy edges
Of what is in front and what is behind us
The thickness of night skews our surroundings

Perception misconceptions grant us the right to stare
Our hearts are told to beat faster by stagnant movements in the distance
We are not the only bitter creatures influenced by the night to play
Because it's easier to pretend to see something when nothing is there

— The End —