"analysed" poems
You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.
The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?
What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?
What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
why do we always inspire the young who idolise and idealise, make the middle-aged merchants and are spoken of by the old as necessary memories by way of rekindling their own memories of youth not travelled upon the paths of the various arts?
modern world decided
to depict the **** perfect family
as a form of ******
now we're told the perfect
family is within reach of
our genetic understanding of things
and how easily synthesised,
how easily synthesised and
rarely analysed to be mutually
bored before the television
content and silent...
raising a family these days almost
feels like committing an act of ******
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
I’m not a picture of perfection,
But I am the Mona Lisa of imperfection,
This distorted picture which you view,
This picture which you judge,
Which you question,
Is my only reality,
A picture hanging in a museum wall,
Being watched, examined, analysed, criticized,
I am that picture,
The one you so often seldom walk pass,
The one which may catch your eye,
The picture that when you stop to stare at,
Haunts you,
The glazed complexion over the eyes,
The somewhat distant smile,
And the disheavled hair,
It’s not a picture of perfection,
But it’s the Mona Lisa of imperfection,
It’s a representation of all those beings walking this earth trying to hide their flaws,
They are not Mona Lisa’s,
They hang on the wall of museums,
Pretending that no one sees through them,
Little do they know, they are barely paintings but pieces of glass,
So transparent and fragile,
That any moment now, when that passing strange stops,
Stares,
And opens there mouth,
That glass, will shatter into tiny little brush strokes,
They will float away into the air,
Leaving nothing but a distorted image of perfection,
Whilst I’ll hang in my glory of imperfection
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 4:23 PM UTC
They took you from the hospital
They didn’t know why you had died
They wanted to do an autopsy
It took 3 weeks
We couldn’t see your body
It wasn’t fit they said
And eventually we got
A Report
Brain - 2 and a half pounds
Body - healthy, unmarked - not emaciated
No needle marks on the arms
Liver - taken for analysis
Traces of Tuinal and Physeptone
They cut, weighed and analysed you
But couldn’t find the reason
Why you had died
Drowning on your own *****
In a mental hospital
My mother took you to her hometown for burial
To the cemetery hedge where you were conceived
Later she told me that whenever you cried
She shoved a dummy covered in malt into your mouth
And then she would leave you
Her bundle of idle words, looks and *****
Poor Dorothy looking for escape
The war child who knew no softness or comfort
Poor John a quick coupling in the dark beneath the cemetery hedge
Begotten from chocolate, stockings and a Burslem teapot
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
Today is about missing you,
About missing your spicy fresh perfume, that I'd begun to love,
About missing your plump fat nose, that I never managed to pinch,
About missing your intense and sometimes senseless banter, that I'd never get enough of,
About missing your attempts to reduce the amount of coffee I drink, that I unwillingly adhered to,
About missing the quarter piece of a jam toast, that you always saved for me,
About missing the way you calmed me down, when we faced storms together,
About missing how you took note of everything, a new hair clip, that I knew you'd like on me,
About missing your watch, which you never took off, because of what it meant to you,
About missing your stories, and the zest with which you narrated them,
About missing your photography, how you captured my best and worst moments, when I wasn't looking,
About missing our shared love for yogurt drinks, and how we analysed each one we drank,
About missing how you screamt 'Mogu Mogu' when you found your favourite drink, in my favourite café,
About missing your big hands, that were strong and gentle at the same time,
About missing those few drives with you, talking about everything and nothing,
About missing how you surprised me on my birthday, with chocolates and a scarf, that feels warmer than any other,
About missing your silly quirks, like carrying your backpack around everywhere, which only I understood,
Today is about missing you
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 3:53 AM UTC
Behind every song is a story,
Some moody,
Even EDM has a story,
It is a powerful story,
With unknown sounds creates,
A musical mystery,
For People it's just "sounds",
Sounds mixed and thrown together,
But it may sound all messy,
Scattered and unorganized,
But to create that ball of excitement,
The music is carefully analysed,
Up untill the last note,
Everything is precisely predicted,
Sounds unorganized,
Creations is organised,
Making it is perfection,
An artist work,
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 9:02 PM UTC
Awakened by whispers from a friend
On the other side of the earth.
He perhaps forgot how time
Lacks to treat us the same.
He was bouncing from
One classroom to the other,
I was in my bed
Sweat drenched in my dreams.
I tried to muffle his scream
But he yelled louder,
Bloodshot eyes, I spoke,
Careful not to wake my mother.
I asked and asked if he was alright,
I was afraid he was thinking up
The actions I almost followed.
I asked him again
If he was fine,
He replied with a "good morning",
I said "goodnight".
My head was thumping too hard
I knew the morning would begin
With my weekly dose of migraine.
He called me back,
I asked again if he was alright,
It's 3 **** clock in the morning,
I would sleep if he was fine.
He acclaimed that I lied,
"I was hurt so I was up
Or else I would never have taken his call"
He said. I sighed,
He couldn't hear.
I told I would be back in two hours,
I wished he would rest
Get his head straight.
He acclaimed that I lied,
I wasn't gonna sleep,
I was traumatized,
He asked again if I was fine,
I replied "relatively".
I wondered what I meant,
He didn't ask to clarify,
I declared I am going to sleep.
I lied.
I was up till past 4,
My alarm set to 5,
I would speak to him then I resolved,
He could do with not killing himself
For two hours I analysed.
I slept for minutes 45
I called but he was gone.
I tried to decipher my strange dreams.
It was about the dogs
Chasing me,
The fear I always have.
I try never to think of love,
In my dream I had no way out,
That was when he had called.
I reminisce now
Was he looking for me to save him,
Or did he save me?
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
Calm down restless man, calm down.
Nothing worried will ever change.
What is will be. What happens happens.
Restless flutters of fallen insecurities
must be silenced to be forgotten.
So forget everything.
Endless streams of consciousness
flows heavily with the neglect
of being free. Freedom only
comes when the thinking is
stopped. Don't think. Just be.
When I am not travelling through
the poetry, I toss sounds inside my head.
Metaphors drip from the unconscious
like ice cream melting in a bowl.
I know I am as strong as my
strength allows me to be.
These times of putting myself
into lines upon a page, these are
what defines me. So let the
jumping end. Sit down. Rest.
Put no foot upon the floor.
Bruised and analysed, stopped
in my tracks by what attacks.
Discontented thoughts be silent.
Be nothing. Be over.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
This is me, Rachael.
I would die from a papercut and blame it on the finger.
I would argue with an eraser if the words didn't look right.
I would tell the moon to shine all day just to **** off the sun.
I see colours in my imagination; my dreams are wild and beyond comparison.
I tend to love too hard and quickly get burnt by the one I flew so high for.
I read too much and believe in past lives.
I forgive but don't forget.
My trust is willing but protects my heart like a guardian of fate.
I will be silent when someone talks **** because I don't take fools gladly, and a wise man never responds to defecation of verbal ignorance.
I willingly argue my point in my head til you know I have analysed my response.
Nothing is taken lightly.
I would argue that the road is really hard and quite weary, and curse my boots as they hit the hallowed ground.
I am impetuous, I rush in, I seek thrill and danger.
Hedonism is my game; I play deftly with an air of mastery.
I am sensitive. As skin is to the weather. A gust of harsh wind could blow me away.
This is me; only a slight composition of who I am, and what I am made of.
And I make no apology.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC
Each mind is situated on the spectrum of belief and reality.
Both ends suffer in their search for the truth.
The man who spends his life navigating the spiritual realm.
He attempts to find the greater purpose for everything.
Every blade of grass, each eroded stone a symbol of something bigger.
The nuances of life analysed and expanded upon to their very limit.
Given meaning in the name of God or the foreshadowing omen of an individual.
The man who traverses reality, grounded in science and logistics.
His mind filled with hypotheses.
Observing outcomes to explain the inexplicable.
He fits his grass and stones into the puzzle of a greater system.
In doing so he is God and the purpose for all things he assigns.
Both men strive to be the voice heard by the masses.
Their findings recorded, read, believed.
In the end does it truly matter.
Two lives spent.
Kneeling, yearning for some kind of affirmation that their time was spent correctly.
That they added anything to the greater scheme.
Pages upon pages filled with every detail in a grain of sand.
The end comes, the ink runs, the pages wither to dust, knowledge lost, purpose forgotten.
The world keeps turning.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
So a while back my friend told me
'You're analytically minded'
Until then I hadn't really seen it
But from then on, I couldn't see
Anything but it
It's like before then my brain only
Analysed whatever was fed in
But now, now it does that
As well as analysing the analytical process
My brain seems to absorb quirky habits
From others more readily now too
I read a book about a nerdy boy
Who loves math, anagrams, and Katherines
All of a sudden I start anagramming
Everything
I saw a vihart video on tesselations
And another on fractals
This reminded me of the Fibonacci sequence
And Sierpinski's triangle(which two friends
Claim is
'A tri-force made up of tri-forces, made of tri-forces!')
Now I'm in love with all four again
And a bunch of random
Mathematical things too
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
I was an extrovert
Before I unraveled the mystery behind the sugar dipped smiles
Before I analysed the well spoken lies;
Before i discovered the hypocrisy of a good gesture
Before I learnt about the phony luxuries pleasures;
Before I heard the tale of overrated love
Before I saw the laugh devilishly hiding the hurt;
Before I noticed the dishonesty of scared friendships
Before I pictured the fate of shallow relationships.
I was an extrovert!
For I believed in expressed words!
For I never felt
The calm peace experienced by an introvert.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
I've sang every song..
I've written all my poems,
I painted with every colour,
And loved with every bone..
But just like that song..
I overplayed all our memories
And over-analysed the way
You'd look in my eyes,
You didn't mean nothing by it..
Oh but you now, won't answer my calls
And now you, don't follow my thoughts
Yet somehow you are still there,
And darling I, will still be here
If you fall..
Yeah honey I'd still be here
Even if the spark's no longer there,
I loved with every bone..
Loved with every poem,
I still love you
With my all.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
Nary a Pence or a Finger across
Shall breach your Fine Dogs to communicate
Even your Frog - with its Webbed Feet emboss
Finds it easy your Dives to replicate
That which - if analysed - makes you Mundane
Par-Level with those admit to Conceit
Yet - breathe deeper - such Act parleys to Bane
Browning our Hearts to this needed Deceit
Sighs! Either whose Mouth this Meaning depend
Be the Cockhold Male or Gorgeous Female
We all could guess - whose Tweet you will re-send,
Whose Days would Season or whose Hours go Stale.
Fancy this Talent, shall Mercy redeem
Spread your Neighbourhood; And all that it seems.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
I could tell you what is on my mind
That I'm worried and scared and anxious
That i really wish i was alone right now
But then I'd be naked.
I could tell you all my strengths and weaknesses
I could tell you that I'm afraid of the dark when i sleep so i turn on the lights
But i could tell you that I'm also afraid of the shadows and what lurks behind the curtains.
But that would make me naked.
I could tell you that i hate photographs
and photoshoots.
And that it hurts to pose.
For a picture
To be analysed by a glass lens
Only to have the best parts of my life
erased by an editing app
Because nobody wants to see scars on Instagram
I could tell you that it makes me sick
And that i wish people loved the real thing
But then I'd be naked
I could tell you that I'm living my dream at the expense of my mother's love
Her smile has become an eclipse
Rare and blinding.
Not mine to see, anymore
I miss her though she misses me too i know but I chose the devil in my head
But that would make me naked
You could tell me about that time last year
You couldn't get out of bed
When you wouldn't get out of bed
Because your heart felt like lead
When only your bed could hold you back
And your sheets could hug you better
And I'd understand because I've been there before
Because then you'd be naked
Without the clothes and baggage
That shame us into silence
The shoes of depression
that lead us into violence
suicidal thoughts just cause
We can't be honest
And don't have the courage to simply be naked.
Prefer the flimsy armor
Of "how are you's" and "i am fines"
Fearing to expose what lies under these
Clothes
Genuine interactions and intimate confessions
I am tired ...i am tired
Of these clothes
I want to be naked
Not behind closed doors
But right here
So should i start removing
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
ya I'm wondering searching for something I can't find
and I'm just pondering wondering were is my mind
yes I see a beam of light that'll surely mesmerize
ya in day and night taking this **** world by surprise
and the new moon in her eyes glistening the night sky
yes its no surprise life can't truly be analysed
well some dwell in it, some just don't want it anymore
just break free deception, specimen of perfection
yet I know what it was for, lost it, find its lament
this pale fragments of porcelain skin fall to the floor
and drift away into the wind to be seen nevermore
and the circumstance of this romance for life is
it can cut like a knife, lift to unmentionable heights
you take a long stroll in the maze of a twisted mind
oh how they quandaried on how it would unfurl in time
so spacious liviacious an endless strain on the mind
oh I really wonder will it rebuilt it self in time
yet I'm just pondering asking the world why so many lies
see there's a crack of light through this dismal dark night sky
oh how the fire dances in her eyes, as my mind now fries
the new moon in the night sky glistening in her eyes
we say your goodbyes to what you always thought it would be
so sad to see modesty might be the end of me
oh it may just be the end of me this time, nothing' inside
how some dwell in it, some just want to live delusions
my conclusions a dillusion with no solution
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Is a poem a song you speak?
Is it the music of the soul?
Is it a random, over-analysed hypothesis?
Does it have meaning as a whole?
Does anybody care,
About the words we post on sites?
The pain that makes good poetry,
Does it make us parasites?
Do we **** the blood of sorrow,
Till its bitter juice is done?
A ton of bloated leeches,
Belching back the pain we've won?
Is my anguish worse than yours,
Because I write it like a song?
Do you care about my heart,
Because my sonnet reads so long?
Are my poems just graffiti,
On the tombs of poets dead?
Is a poem really better,
When it's torment that's been said?
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
They discussed Prom and silly boys who talked big, but
couldn’t tear open a ******
They squabbled over pole-position in a race that didn’t matter- And
analysed events made cinematic in re-telling.
I leafed through a magazine:
One Girl’s Plan to Meet and MARRY A MILLIONAIRE (who isn’t a creep)
~How to dress to be taken seriously
Top Career Women Tell Their Secrets
~Hot spring fashion
The TRAP of Living Together
~CK One (selling equality)
For a moment I pictured myself applying lipstick, then thought better not.
It was all ********
I shoved the magazine back in my bag- with Tess, exam texts, and
a clean change of clothes.
The bus stopped right outside.
He made me tea, and I read bedtime stories to his kids.
After:
We drank white-wine in the garden, kissed and found peace-
Searched for stars in a sky the colour of storms.
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
There's no such thing as incognito
(I + Outside = Eyes) when
Beetles stall with headlights like lamps
And street-bustles are littered with head-lights.
(colours x two = terror)
Current thoughts buzz hidden by swarms
Of awkward car crashes on side roads.
(specimen + street = analysed 'I')
Skin stretches tight dried out under
X rays and equations.
(expressions as such hit like irony
a certain lens is needed = answers)
my answer is not incognito.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
people are scary when over analysed,
every person that i touch seems far too contrived.
what are your intentions?
to feel your body on mine?
i think about you next to me too much,
want to know what love feels like.
pretend that I'm more attractive than i'll ever be,
i am worthless and crazy deluded,
enjoy my hypocrisy.
you're my downfall,
you're my muse,
my worst distraction,
my sadness and blues.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 3:52 AM UTC
.
Of all who are here
( welcome )
.""
Some picture creation as a collective movement
And interchanging of energies
Thru a matrix
Commonly called
Time and Space
In which beings develop
And transform
And are now in their present shape
//
Some see creation as the simple
" placing down "
Of completed figures onto a stage
That does not change
But is only there to be seen
And evaluated
Studied
And analysed
By other consciousnesss
•
I prefer the first of the two possibilities
.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
*the dud man wanted a saint
but she failed his mean test
even after a faint and a feint
with a huge sigh he let it rest
took up his rucksack and left
she cast him a long wistful look
her slumped pose the picture
of internal dejection and anguish
sharpened by an endless lament
that she'd not shown him his theft
of the aching heart of a live woman
of vibrant flesh, blood and dreams
she longed to tell him straight
she was not an idea to be analysed
and later discarded like an abused rag
but the unkind distance engulfed him
even as the rays of the sinking sun
blended their gold with his yellow attire
thus she knew as of that unfeeling day
such mishaps were the very fabric of life*
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
An invitation
to observe a spectacle of dishes
laid out with care
each too beautiful to destroy
and yet the desire to taste too strong
to meet new friends
conversation on any subject
but no emotions allowed
all sentiment to be left with your coat
and collected on leaving
a glass of port
an exchange of ideas
feelings evaporating with perfume of cigars
paintings analysed
books discussed
poems recited
and jokes laughed at
no people present
privacy to be respected at all costs
going home to a feeling of emptiness
something missing
permission to reach out and touch
to know
and to be known
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 8:36 PM UTC