"accusatory" poems
Your caress is silky and creamy like butter
And my darling, I'm afraid that your lingering touch will give me diabetes
Your heart crumbles like flour when I press mine against it
And beads of sugar hang like dew upon your lashes
Maybe if I blended you up into cookie dough
And baked you at 350 for 15 minutes until you were golden brown
Then I wouldn't be afraid to stroke your resplendent face
Perhaps I wouldn't wince at the thought of pressing my ear against your chest
Just to hear your confectionary heart quiver
And there wouldn't be the slightest trepidation when I kissed your intoxicating tears
But I'm afraid that I'll leave you in for too long
And your saccharine core will harden and reek of soot
And with the slightest touch, you'll be reduced to ash
And your cremated remains will get frightened at the accusatory wail of the smoke detector
And they'll seek refuge in my oven's crevices
Never to be seen again
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
If ever I was accusatory
it's only because I too am guilty.
I try at symmetry
only to end up inadequate.
One who cannot amount to their own ideals
cannot know a single thing.
However certain I am of decay,
I still forget faster than memory would allow me to retain
motes of dust scattered across my library
that were once skin,
places I had been,
not one returning from departure.
No postcards
save for my disintegrated cells who speak only
of transformation.
Hushed in dim light,
scattered across oceans of words whispering,
You're already dead you naive little star.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Here it goes again,
Here it comes again,
The articles about
Psychopaths
And the accusatory tone
Twisting behaviors
Twisting actions
To sound toxic
To sound dangerous
To stamp a big red label on my skin,
Screaming
"AVOID THIS ONE AT ALL COSTS"
While I sit and weep.
But these articles
Blog posts
People fleeing from me
Left and right
Are lies, right?
Tell me, please,
Tell me,
Someone?
My anxiety and need to be reassured
Roots from my PTSD,
And my neediness and wants for attention
Is normal for my upbringing,
Right?
And writing poem after poem
About how much I care for you,
And making playlists
With songs in it
That make me think of you,
Is just a sign that I care,
Right?
I don't want to be
A psychopath.
I don't want to be
A toxic person,
I don't understand
How telling someone you love them,
Is bad?
But these articles say that showering someone
In constant attention and praise
Means you're a psychopath.
And these blog posts
Are telling me that poems and gifts and music,
All means you're selfish and unfeeling.
But I don't want to be,
I care so much, I love you so much.
I'm afraid
Of who I am.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
Bruises,
an amythest stain of spreading merlot
on white carpet,
the deep blue of the Belizean sea and
the hot weight of you beside me,
crimson blood and rising pain as I
scar myself because of you again,
the flat hazel of your eyes
the last time I saw you.
Accusatory and pleading,
these bruises bleed fresh and tender
on the surface of my heart as I
will myself to forget you
for the last time.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
If you had the opportunity to live a high-risk lifestyle, would you?
I'm not asking this to be derogatory, nor to be accusatory
I simply want you to think on
what it is
to live a high-risk lifestyle.
As a mass, we seem to think of it as an undesirable thing.
Now, isn't that just ******* quaint?
Probability favors a percentile:
That which is unique enough
to leave it's mark
on our realm.
That includes us.
Risk, unless done in ignorance, is the acceptance of probability
More specifically, the pursuit of the more improbable chance.
Perhaps when you think of high-risk, you think of constant parties
perhaps of ***** needles, and/or STIs
unprotected *** or doing psychedelics
but I ask you to ponder
just how high risk Life is to begin with:
Some wish to claim that Life is a granted gift
by some benevolent Father figure who has our back, (but not theirs)
but I say that's just selfish, arrogant and, frankly, quite foolish to claim.
This Universe was not made for us and us alone
as if we were some sort of Sims for a bipolar teenage boy on *******
We were not molded after anything intelligent
with the exception of the Universe and her Nature itself.
The probability of the Universe existing is not %100.
The probability of the particular combinations of atoms within the strands of DNA in your body
are not "guaranteed" to occur. Ever.
But they did.
They. Did.
They.
*******
Did.
As if the Universe were the soil to the roots of our existence
and Her Energy is as the water to the roots
and her Chemistry allows it all to happen.
And her physical laws, for lack of a better term, allow that to happen.
On top of that, you ******* exist! You! In particular!
With your experiences, thoughts and feelings, insights and interests, passions and even DNA!
You! Wonderful, temporary you!
Mortal you. Ethereal you. Spiritual you. Intrinsic you. Extrinsic you.
You exist, if nothing else, in a relative way.
There is no way to be certain.
What are the friggin' odds on anything existing at all, let alone you?
There is no way to be certain.
If you could bet on your existence, would you?
There is no way to be certain.
Nothing is granted; everything is permitted by the brain.
There is no way to be certain.
Perhaps it is deeper than that. I hope and think so,
yet, there is no way
to be
certain.
~Addendum!~
Statistically, about 93% of people accounted for by census information who have lived-
have died.
Statistically, that gives you a 7%ish chance of surviving this life!
That seems like a high-risk Life, to me.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
.
He doesn't realise...
The weight of his actions and words that pummel her to the ground.
Beating her down for every time she rises up to undo his ropes with which she's bound.
He doesn't see...
Past the darkened lenses that she dons.
She wears them,
not to shield her pride that was wrongfully taken,
but to protect him from the repercussions that would come with accusatory speculations.
He doesn't know...
Of the soaked pillow that accompanied her.
The rivulets of tears...
She had quietly shed without a whimper.
He doesn't hear...
The silent altercation between the treasure that beats in her chest and the thing that thinks in her head.
The struggle that ensues when the mind tries to rescind what the heart had wholly given and carelessly said.
He doesn't care...
To think of the devastating waves that come.
Only to erode the last bastion of hope she nurtures...
This frail wall that she prays for nightly.
Just so that it would hold up through another day's endeavour.
He doesn't feel...
The need for empathy.
For he thinks that he's god with one devout follower.
He commands her loyalty with his deluded testaments
and his fists as sceptre.
She doesn't live...
To see future suns.
For her day finally set when it all came down.
The wall she had feebly held together with her life...
Easily gave way when he came at her armed with a knife.
.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
Bruises—
an amethyst stain of merlot
spreading on white carpet.
The deep blue of the glistening Belizean sea
and the hot weight of you settled beside me.
Crimson blood and rising pain—
I scar myself because of you again.
The flat hazel of your eyes
the last time I saw you,
hollowed by suffering.
Accusatory and pleading,
these bruises bleed fresh and tender
on the surface of my heart
as I will myself to forget you
for the last time.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
i caught
the midnight sky
winking at me
as i walked
out the front door;
its clouded lid
falling upon
that bright
but waning eye
for the briefest
of moments
it is hard
to know
if this was
a gesture
of endorsement
a translunary "attaboy"
of encouragement
to keep walking
this path
less travelled
or an accusatory
reassurance
despite
the ambivalence
that my secrets
would be kept
by this
ever-watchful
stellar companion
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 8:06 AM UTC
*Increasingly distorted memories
slowly succumbing to darkness
Some fallen, some forced into
the oubliette of my subconscious
Figures of the past linger tentatively
before receding into shadow
Familiar strangers they do seem
as if merely remnants of dreams
The looking glass of childhood friends
mirrors an unrecognizable effigy
An idealized reflection of a former self
unflinching in its accusatory glare
Whispers persist from imprisoned depths
for I am silently being recalled to life
Somehow I've forgotten how to be
the only person I've ever wanted to be
Somehow I've forgotten how to be me*
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
Hello,
I know I shouldn't have to introduce myself
for obvious reasons
but it's apparent to me
that we can so readily change who we are
in that matter of a few years
we are a completely distinct
being from what we once are
but enough about me
I'm living me and you lived it
we know about me
what are you like now?
can you even answer that
can you look at yourself in the mirror
how much do you lie
how much do you hate yourself
these aren't fair questions
i know
completely inappropriate for a job interview
i get it
you've changed
i feel the fetus that is you
nestled inside of me
waiting to come out
you are not innocent
none of us are
but you especially
you claim to be something you're not
you gleefully toe the line between good and bad
blissfully confident of your place
there is no line we both know that
but you toe it anyway
why am i so accusatory?
me?
YOU JUDGE ME
you of all people
the person I have become
YOU JUDGE ME
no
I won't have it
Monsters.
They tell us why they are interesting
"because they weren't always monsters"
********
a caterpillar is still a butterfly
they are one in the same
just because something changed
doesn't mean you changed
I get it
you blame me for you
i get it
well what do you want
what could I do
to make you happy
to make you better
to make you.... loveable
do the right thing
most of the time
when you can
do the right thing
help people
as a matter of self respect
educate yourself
when others fail too
be fair
be strong yes
but don't forget to be fair
money doesn't matter
having enough matters sure
but you don't need a yacht
be the smartest man in the room
even when you know you're not
treat the homeless with respect
they are the ones that need it the most
respect common sense before religion
respect contentness before exhilaration
don't eat when a waiter is at the table
don't let your good idea lose to a popular one
never let someone intimidate you
unless they have a gun
love
love unconditionally
let your heart be broken
so that one day someone can help put it out together
don't settle
unless you know you should
never become a cynic
please never do that
be better than me future self
please
I will do my best to make it so
I hope one day you will read this
with a smile
knowing that you became
the person that I
doubted you could
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
You made me do it, your hand,
it covered mine, bound it in iron,
directed it, carved the words,
not literally or directly
but through the ********* mind games
and the way you looked at me
the way you pretended not to give a ****
when I know you loved me
(love me).
You stared me down
and screamed the words
without even moving your lips
I might have missed it
if I had looked away, I wish I had.
Mind games, ********* mind games.
You put the words into my head
you engraved them there,
dragged my hand across the page
and the awful ugly hateful
self destructive words spilled out all over, contaminating it.
Accusatory, true.
False, true.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 12:39 AM UTC
I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.
It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.
My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.
I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.
Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.
Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’
‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’
Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’
‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!
And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
sometimes i can't trust myself not
to buckle under the weight of
your near enough's and almost
words you can't quite force out from
between my teeth. like the accusatory
cutlery your eyes never fail to
reflect this would look better with
the lights off and between sheets but
then again i always have had trouble
with the twin tormentors dark
and sleeping. sometimes i feel as
though red is the only colour i know
and you insist on inhabiting it you have
ruined sunsets and arsenal and jelly
for me. like i was not made to walk
through fire just as well as ocean i have
merely forgotten the way spoon fed
on ashes and bad pennies glinting
off the electrics i refuse to give you
my spectrum. sometimes my
ribcage admirably lives up to its
name and i find myself choking
on thoughts i'd sworn not to
inhale. like non newtonian fluid
i have inherited your sudden cusps
and contradictions lit up momentarily
only to be put out when i am around you
i find myself craving cigarettes.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
Can you hear that sound
Like a tiny whining
You're a sad eyed puppy
Inside
It's a kind of yearning
When pining
away, wanting someone or something
So expensive beyond reach
The mind begins to fantasize what it's like,
Infantilize what's real life.
Enlisting unreasonable scenerios
Creative now with lies
And denials and exit strategies,
Scapegoats of close members of family, accusatory..
Blame all but yourself
Inflammatory story's demise
Because the lost moments spent
Pining away
Will die unknowing your real life self.
Inside that fog of fictitious false depictions
Who dat?
Starving yourself blind
See there on that podium
Your bad phat shines
Always in first place--gold medal favorite
Hooray it's not quite you or even true.
If pining were a sport
Having lost your minds
You'd all be winners.
Celebrity famous, go on
Crave being extra, so street savvy
"Hey Alexa, Google, Suri
Define obsession."
Pining turns dangerous
In absentia dysplased
Souls are stolen,
Human replicas.
Still carrying on pining
Away.
Killer lover blank.
Got brain? Bullets?
A shiv or Shank?
Sharp as a pine tree...
(Please,
Don't forget to give
Thanks.)
Jul 22, 2020
Jul 22, 2020 at 11:27 AM UTC
this is a depth bomb cutting,
a midnight message for me,
a Zola accusatory,
“You make me think about death and doorways and sleep”
no mere paper cut incision,
bandaid and triple bacterial,
a forehead kiss
and an-on-your-way
nope serious business
*death and doorways and sleep
and all that is in between,
nightly rehanging the me-moon,
on that curved tip
the onerous tasks of child raising,
you, the perp, the perpetual kid,
the holy version victim trinitized
too?
hanging your self right on that shining orbital,
leads to unquestionable answer processions
ahead of the unanswerable, they ask,
what’s behind the screen door of
death and doorways and sleep*
life is hard,
but without questions,
it is unquestionably
harder
find the doorways.
this explains so little
and so more much.
reminder: make doorways - open them
11:10pm 4-10-19 ~ 10:31am 4-16-19
~for AH~
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 10:45 AM UTC
Shouts, pounds,
Squeaking trainers,
And once again I'm just one,
Of a team of failures.
My name is called,
I hear too late,
Whip round my head,
But take the full weight.
Glasses fly off,
I fall to the floor,
Dazed and out of breath,
And a demoralizing score.
The world becomes blurred,
And nothing is clear,
Except the laughter,
The accusatory jeers.
This is my reward,
For trying my best?
Well in that case enjoy your three man team,
Because I need a rest.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
Greatness strides down through her hair
Eager hearts go chasing after
Dark minds keep solemn watch
As a rope drapes from the rafters.
Blue flesh and purple lips
Listless eyes and cold stiff toes
A man of cloth recites in earnest
A selfish prayer of stunted prose.
This ****** of crows that’s gathered here
Stands by in wait to see it’s done
They gloat in glee and flaunt their feathers
In this demise - the day is won.
By tomorrow another will come
Found by many with accusatory tongue
Without a witness to their name
The deal is struck, the rope re-strung.
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 4:03 PM UTC
I feel like running into the arms of warm grave,
if it weren't for all these people I supposedly saved.
Now looking at me with their accusatory stares,
looks of "How dare you emotionally sway,
from the hopes and words that convinced us to stay!"
What if you find that I'm wrong;
that these are not real songs,
and that I don't belong?
I'm sorry.
Compared to other heroes, I'm not nearly as strong.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
I enjoy looking at flowers
and snorting oxy.
I like reading poetry
and getting into fights.
I'm different around you and I think I like that.
I'm more gentle, less accusatory.
I speak softer and with more love.
I'm waiting for you to fall in love with me
and I'm working on fixing myself.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
well, aren't we all!
all so very
very
sorry
------
some day the blame shall come!
soon,
the accusatory
faces of children
shall shatter
every dream
--------
our vast pretencious
lovelessness!
----
our inept skills
of nurturing!
------
death is reigning
-------
we do not see!
-------
soon soon
we all shall be
so sorry
so very
very sorry
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 10:41 AM UTC
nights like these
when you recoil from my touch
revulsion scored deep
excuse dog-eared primed ready to go
at page 53
I fear
that I will never again enjoy
the needful tender embrace
of a woman while I am sill able
to offer back anything less than chaste
and in some lugubrious future
if taken to task about some
or other transgression past
your accusatory “why?” requires one simple reply
“do you really need to ask?”
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
i swear to god im going to stop
yes ill crumple my pack
and pour out the bottle under my bed
unload the shotgun
deactivate my account
and put my pen away
not because you complain of my odor
or that i stumble too often
or that im trigger happy
or that i post like theres no tomorrow
or because the verses i author
are vile
accusatory
explicit
pathetic
needy or
inflammatory
but because the first is the best day
to trick yourself
into existing just as you should
into being someone that
a partner might actually want to be with
i can
i can do it
and if a pledge isnt good enough
im selling tickets
general admission though
first come first served
and honestly you should
get there early because
this is something that everyone
is going to want to see
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
Lucky?
You think I am lucky? I am many things
(I presume)
Lucky is not one of them.
I am hungry.
Very hungry.
My stomach’s longing whimpers are replaced by accusatory screams
From within the same starving sac as soon as I look at food –
These days my body rejects everything I consume
Except for the pills.
Oh, the pills.
You claim they help me run better, run faster.
I’m lucky that my mind runs
more efficiently than normal?
I am many things,
But lucky is not one of them.
Nor is normal.
You have it backwards.
My mind does run
Without the capsules.
It runs and runs and runs and runs.
It’s unstoppable, I mean really unstoppable;
I have no more control of it than you do.
Listen to me. I need these Schedule II controlled crutches
In order to walk.
Because some days I wake up crippled.
Other days I wake up in the middle of a marathon.
Either way I am simultaneously supported and restrained
And end up crawling through the daylight hours.
But hey, I am lucky to have such a close relationship
With your study buddy. We’re in the library today and
You want to “hold” one or two for your “all nighter” for an exam tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be a sad day for you.
Not because you will end up failing despite your last minute efforts,
But because the sun won’t come out from behind the gray.
You will feel sad, upset, perhaps even confused.
I will show no empathy. I will console you half-heartedly with the driest monotone a Human larynx can generate.
Tomorrow you will realize why I don’t feel lucky.
I don’t feel anything.
I am flat, and you tomorrow will notice I have been all along.
I don’t have happy; I don’t have sad.
What I have now is a routine. A convincing façade.
I have coping mechanisms and instincts hell-bent on survival.
I have a problem.
I don’t know if I have love anymore.
I think I have a few friends left.
I am losing my grip on the tattered remains of my personality.
I have already lost everything else.
I am many things, I presume,
But forgive me if I don’t feel lucky today.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Red.
Everywhere red.
Swirling and swaying through the water...
Patterns in the bath
Patterns on the tiles
Everywhere, white stained red.
I look down at my wrists... my hands,
see them stained,
the water diluting this purity.
Stumbling out the shower, trailing red.
Grabbing the sink, leaving bright, accusatory smudges
*Oh no, no, no, no
they can't see, shouldn't see!*
Not all this red...
...Except red is perhaps not even the right colour,
the packet calls it "Plum Perfection"
I've died my hair.
And made a mess.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
i sit in the still air
that asks nothing of me
only useful because
my body deems it so
the air
not needy
like me
or accusatory
or insinuating my purpose
is to have a purpose
like me
my chemical body
so earthly
changes the air
elemental
powerful
like me
the air does not belong to me
and its purpose is not to serve me
the air understands me
and to be free
in tune with me
just be
is all it seeks
like me
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC