#brainless
I... I find pleasure in knowledge.
But I admire your ignorance too.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 5:22 PM UTC
How would you feel, being called brainless.
No feeling behind the thought, no meaning behind every sentence, no heart behind every utter of the words.
Do you have the feeling of lonesomeness, i bet you dont, i know you dont...your an empty shell, and i am the lost soul, foolish enough to stay, the empty soul wishing for more, then just a "wish you the best" and a "you can do it".
Why am i fooling myself.
Hurt, suffer and empty smiles are just a part of everyday life.
Someone tell me, why does a poem belong and why does it seem to fly over your mind and set emotions off?
Brainless and left to suffer and maby grow from an empty soul...
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
Stuporstar, he’s a Stuporstar
He counts on how dumb you are;
He says a lot of stupid things
He wears them like diamond rings.
He doesn’t really give a stinking fig
He’ll rob and gut you like a pig.
He just assumes his fans are dim
He is sure it is all about him.
He believes he is so very smart
He drives his fancy golf cart
And decorates his home with gold
Being wealthy just never gets old.
He thinks we’re all fascinated
With the legend he’s created
That he was saved by the sea
By a queen when he was a baby.
He doesn’t really give a stinking fig
He’ll rob and gut you like a pig.
He just assumes his fans are dim
He is sure it is all about him.
He’s sure he can shoot you down
And his ratings won’t go down;
That he says the best you ever heard
Because he has the very best words.
He’s smarter than all the generals.
First in his class, we all know his name
Thinks the world is his computer game.
Thinks all his dupes loves all he’ll do.
The truth is, he don’t care about you.
Stuporstar, he’s a Stuporstar
He counts on how dumb you are;
He says a lot of stupid things,
He wears them like diamond rings.
He doesn’t really give a stinking fig
He will rob and gut you like a pig.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
THE LADY OF ALOT
Estatic when she's shopping,
The boughten things she's got;
Right proud of all her purty stuff,
She's The Lady Of Alot.
Alot of costly Chinese stuff
Imported hear by Walmart stores.
She useta shop at I Magnums but
She don't like them ones no more.
Irregardless, she believes she
Ain't not no ordnary ****
If she'd of got haffa chance
She'd of voted twice for Trump
And the strait Republican ticket
So The Donald can fix are country
Like he exhaled in his own companies,
Making lots of good clean money.
In her sweatshop-made clothing
She shouts allowed she can't wate
For the Grand Old Party and Trump
To agin make Murrkuh grate!
She feel she's happy in her ivory tower
With all the treasures she has got.
She sees nothing wrong with this country
The dense, nearsighted, Lady Of Alot.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
On our first date I'm gonna sit on my phone.
Appear uninterested.
Keep asking you to "repeat that".
When you try and get my attention I'll laugh emphatically at something on my phone and show it to you.
Because I'm Gen Y and I don't have a ******* clue.
I was taught
To show affection when it suits me.
To show love when it's manipulative.
And always to keep you down so it feels like I'm floating.
Because I never want to remember how it feels to sink.
Y I don't identify with Gen Y.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC
hello
hi
what's up
the sky
there's no way for me
to be normal around you
whatever you say
whatever you do
I go from straight A's
to not being able to form a sentence
I can't do anything
all because of you
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
It's an anxiety attack waiting to happen when I can't think of a witty way to say something unoriginal; something that everyone has heard before, but that just now occurred to me to say. I can feel my thoughts racing, my heartbeat speeding up to pump blood to my overreacting brain that's now thinking, "How the **** am I gonna get these feelings out, now?" I can't think of a cunning way to use a metaphor--one that I need to be able to put this pen to the page and call all these thoughts in my head poetry.
What is the meaning of poetry? I feel like I should have some kind of figurative language in here, but my brain is fried. I'm too numb to process a **** thing. I'm so numb that it physically hurts and that pain is all that I can feel. That and the burning of my eyes from lack of sleep. This isn't poetry. I don't know what this is--random words strung together by a writer who's falling asleep at the page, who doesn't even know what sense is at this point. It's a rant...it's a ramble. Sleepless ramble
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC