"analyzed" poems
When you love someone who doesn't love you back your world ends.
When you love someone who doesn't love you back you keep pumping love. You are so oblivious and eager that you give them so much love. No matter what they won’t give it back.
When you love someone who doesn't love you back. You feel nothing but absolute pain and sorrow. You feel like there nothing left except the love that won't be taken. Your love is so strong and there’s so much that it floods you.
When you love someone who doesn't love you back. You feel hopeless because of all the love you gave this person and how much you'd do for love in return. You'd give them all the time in the world, all the love in the world. You still do this relentlessly even though they wont give you five minutes when you need that five minutes.
Being in love with someone who doesn't love you back is a burning red pain. It's a pain like nothing else because no matter what you do, no matter what medicine or treatment you give to that pain it's still there. It's there when you see his face, hear his voice, remember his touch. It's always there.
When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, you don't have to worry too much about them intentionally hurting you. That's because everything small memory you've over analyzed hits you across the face over and over. You're constantly hating yourself because this one person was so important to you and now he's gone. “I should've done..” “Why was I so..” “No wonder he doesn't..” Those thoughts are toxic and seizes up your body.
When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, you get so ******* close to hating them. You hate that they've ripped you open, eaten you up and have left you to decay. You hate that they have let you hate yourself more than you could ever hate them. You hate them because of the things they gave you which weren't all good. And the things they stole. Like crying on their shoulders which they gave, but your pride they took.
When you're in love with someone for the first time and they don't love you back, you never want to fall in love again. You never want attachments with anyone because of this substantial pain that is constantly there. You never want to kiss with love, talk with love, witness love. You never want love unless, it's that one person you love. That's the only thing that matters. Love had a horrible reputation, it's either make it or ******* break it. Not take it.
When you're hurt by someone who can't feel pain, you wish you never fell in love. Never in lust, never started talking, never meeting. You wish you could erase their smell so you wouldn't ever have to think about why you remember it so well. You wish you can't vividly remember how their arms felt and how they were once so welcoming.
When you love someone who doesn't love you back, you are pathetic. You cry in bed while replaying your first kiss, first date, the time you fell asleep together. You can remember every feeling from the first time you felt love to the first time your heart skipped a beat because, well, it was ending. You remember the goosebumps running down your back when you last touched his hand as you left his car. That was the last time you'd be in his car. And that was the last time you touched his leathery skin that was wet from your tears. And that was the last time he would know how much you loved him.
You replay every memory over and over until they're worn out. And after they're worn out you can't ever get new ones. You love this person and you will for a long, long time. But they won't ever love you. They won’t get those stomach tickles when you hear their name. They wont miss having their chapped lips against your neck tickling you elegantly. Because to them that doesn't matter, they didn’t feel love.
When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, it's almost impossible to stop loving them. No matter what you do. No matter what they did. No matter how it hurts. No matter what, you will love them.
When you love someone who doesn’t love you back, you are incapable of stopping because you are paralyzed.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 9:59 PM UTC
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
Purple is often misunderstood
People confuse it with pink or blue
They cannot comprehend change
The synthesis of something new
Purple has been picked to pieces
Analyzed with Pantone paint chip cards
The public is vexed, this defiance of ***
Twirled around by color guards
They say that violet delights have violent ends
That from this “choice,” there’s no return
But they’re the ones who set us aflame
And we, in their triumph, burn
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Every word that I've said to you has been analyzed
By you
By her
By everyone
I speak in rhymes and riddles to confuse
But you understand
Not always at first but you do
So I hope you understand me
Now more than ever
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Let me tell you about myself.
I am a mosquito magnet.
I have little scars of itchy memories all over my scrawny legs.
But I think it means my blood is sacred.
I find my laugh unique and one of a kind.
My walk, resembling more of a bowlegged wobble, allows me to stand out against the crowd.
(My walk isn't that bad, by the way, I was merely exaggerating for stylistic purposes.)
What's more, the fact that I am prone to blushing at even the slightest glance my way is kldjaf;ldjfoiad;htija;ji;ajf.
I love it.
My clumsiness only adds meaning to the moments in which I am fleetingly graceful.
Yes, my posture is rough around the edges,
But it signifies that I have been around the world a few times.
At least I don't jut out my pretty decently sized *******
You're welcome.
I find my lack of arguing skills in the moment cute.
My mistakes are adorable, and my obvious flaws are endearing.
The fact I can't **** an ant without showing sympathy is amiable.
If only somebody thought the same way about me.
If only people looked and analyzed others as closely as I do.
They would see.
That way I wouldn't be the only one loving myself. (Or trying to.)
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
Isolationist theories
of my brutal development
A mask
In the world of passengers
Regretting every slight disruption
Making icy chatters of teeth
As we wonder
How will these small altercations
Affect the grand course
of my surreptitious collapse?
Just a violent object on an axis
A washer head
thrown into a tumultuous ocean of visions
A flickering correspondent
Lying on an abolition
The worst things happening to the best people
It spins and breaths and *****
This molested scared demon
Anally penetrating all that I believe is genuine
Reels of my childhood development
Played on repeat to search for ammunition
The tunneling rib cages of my insanity
The forest nymph of all that is good
The one who created me
Locked away in a windowless world
Analyzed as if lockness was one of them
I always thought it would be me
Falling to where I could not be found
How am I still standing?
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:35 AM UTC
Two men, one poem.
This day, on this site.
Two men wrote to me.
One called me brother.
The other, an arrogant *****
Called me little.
One shared his life,
With humility and gratitude,
Then, I lost it.
Wept. Baby like.
Honored me with trust.
Swapped spit stories
That bled into my brain,
And a tattoo appeared on my
Writing arm, one word,
Humility.
One boasted of his beans.
His bean counting reads.
Analyzed his trends,
Predicting by Christmas (!),
He would have this many.
His **** poems he informed,
Would be published.
What need did he have
For punk-u-ation,
His rants, his **** stream of words.
Better than mine,
Just cause his stuff I said,
Not my cup of tea.
What a crazy place this place.
Holy and ******** sided.
Humble humble, always humble.
He invoked, this arrogant one,
God's name.
Not knowing I talk to Him.
So I rang Him up and said,
How did a little peenus-genius
Find his way onto this
Holy Place, HP, of kindness.
He smiled in brevity.
Did I not create both,
Angels and devils?
I love God's brevity.
His commas, his question marks,
His pointed punctuation.
I love that He could create
A man whose sight of
Me, unseen, but found capacity
To love me in ways
Undreamed.
Because I peered in to the man's reveal,
Saw quality, value,
Saw humility.
So of arrogance, I said,
I would write.
But it is of humility
I will sing,
Of loving human kindness extraordinaire.
Of weeping endless.
At the joy afforded me
To read so many lovely poems,
Here.
If my poems never see the
Imprimatur of a publishing house,
It matters not,
For I have seen a human being
Weep real tears reading mine.
I have shed rivers of my own
Upon discovering yours.
Humble, humble.
If it is glory you seek,
You will find it,
All alone. ************
Me, I live here, in the midst of a
Good Company.
Sept. 7th, 2013
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
In some crazy way
like being loved
Poetry gives me
Strength and
Motivation
at times it’s
all I have
It’s where
I escaped
It’s Where I
feel right at home
my happy
state of mind
Where I take
my mental
Essence to
a higher plateau
Where words
becomes Arts
Never ceased
to amazed
Let the ink
dance with
my mind
Tango enlightenment
Impossible to avoid
ink splattered
all over
my thoughts
It’s like swimming
In the Black Sea
with full consent
into a black hole
Impossible to
let go
Orientation put
me into a dazed
But not for long
anticipating
memory fades
Ruined expressions
like mind on fire
seeking for the river
Put words together
analyzed all
the dance strides
my ink had taken
Scrutinized
what It all means
and make sense
of it all
Nevertheless
keep my insanity
Is The duel
being fought
Enduringly
into the abyss of
The poetic mind
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
I am under the microscope
I put myself here
I didn't know
How far it would go
Years in, and I am slowly dissected
Habits up for scrutiny
Emotions analyzed
Demeanor reviewed
Constantly screened
For any hint of disorder
Perhaps I am lucky
That help is at my finger tips
But it feels like a curse
When sickness is your soul
And it lives on through treatment
Through love
Through the microscope
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
I heard my eight year old cousin call his sister a ******
because she is bisexual.
I heard the voice of an angel whisper
*Daddy says **** go to hell.*
That poor boy's mind has been poisoned since birth.
He has been fed line after line
of over-analyzed,
misunderstood scripture
and he believes it is his ticket
into heaven.
I can't wrap my head around
why homosexuals would go to hell
but the ones flicking Satan's tongue at them
are saved.
Love doesn't send you to hell.
Hate does.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
You’re cute with your fitted khakis that
I want to burn and bury
And the way that nothing bothers you even when
I yearn for you to care, she
Doesn’t need to know how we call each other late at night
Drugs and darkness our excuse for acting self-indulgent
Excuses formed through guilt, but now we accept them in the daylight
Because it feels all right
I feel all right
I like you in your blue button down shirt that
Smells like your bed and disaster
When that afternoon after I knelt to you
Unspoken, we decided to move past her
I wish I were a writer
So these words I twist and turn, attempting to form thoughts
Analyzed by readers and thinkers and lovers alike
Would more accurately explain what’s going on in my brain
I hope she feels all right
I love her and I love you
And I hate that I love you
And I love that I love you
And I want to love with everything I am
I know this isn’t coming out right at all
What I’m trying to say is I have
Developed these feelings that we knew we would
But said we wouldn’t and
Here I am, exposed
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Strange, except true.
Some folks refuses to face the real truth.
Whenever asked, who profited more from racism?
Since Civil War and probably before.
We all within the real world know this answer.
Using the politicians present and of the days of old.
They craft legislature to hold back some.
Just like laws created to banned throw from counters and selected water fountains.
Where the water were the same color?
So, who profited more from racism?
Presently, we heard "Black Lives Matter" which isn't against any particular group.
But as with any controversy some complains and miss the point.
Which were addressing verdicts decided by juries in courts.
Where some are dead on?
And others completely wrong.
Then like a Four Tops songs "It's The Same Old Song".
The power that be always complains they being done wrong.
Without addressing, who profited more from racism?
Families with good connection.
Where their child should be serving time?
Instead on probation seeking some type treatment.
Because the power of wealth works decisive in those decision.
Facts, has been written and analyzed several times.
That white often don't how to handle conflicts with others.
Then when you bring this up.
Many use the reverse racism tricks.
Failing to comprehend many white judges courts decision that got off many.
We seen this in Alabama and Mississippi during the sixties.
And continue to in the present.
If up for votes whites would revert back to segregation.
Cause been on a competing level they finding out education truly matters.
Then they had better schools in the past.
And was the creator of white flight.
But history has pointed out during days of old they terrorized blacks during the nights.
So who profited off of racism?
Of course this is just one person's question?
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
You either know me, or you don’t.
I’m your best friend, and worst enemy.
I’m bought, sold (new and old),
sought, found, and tossed around.
I get twisted and turned,
mimicked and gimmicked.
I lead you here, I lead you there,
I lead you just about anywhere.
I whisper in your ear, and boom across the sky,
feeding off echoes, savoring my cry.
I’m overlooked and undercooked—
raw as sushi just unhooked.
I’m encrypted and coded into complex clues,
hidden in books and the daily news.
I’m hacked, chewed, shredded and burned,
analyzed and synthesized at every turn.
I’m stronger than ever and growing each day,
collecting, connecting, and creating the way.
Information’s the name, and if life’s a game,
then I’m one slick player with zero shame.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
I'm not saying
that this is how it is
But,
In all my years of school
the one thing I've been taught
Again
and
Again
...
is the American Revolutionary war
Which makes sense
since,
it was technically the official formation
of the country I currently live in
But really,
In 10th grade
I'm having deja-vu back
to fourth grade
when we even had a musical
about it
(I was student #2 by the way)
And now
we have the Broadway musical Alexander Hamilton
which,
I am TOTALLY a fan of
Despite
the numerous reoccurring themes
I've had stuck in my face
enough to remember
for the
rest
of
my
lifeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
...
Okaaay,
So, Revolutionary War:
...
...
...
AftertheFrenchandIndianwarBritianwasindebtsotheytriedtaxingthecollonieswhichthecolloniesweretotallyagainst.Miscommunication(allthewayacrossthesea)alongwithotherthingsincludingphrasessuchas"notaxationwithoutrepresentation"werethrownaround.EventuallyitjustblewupintotheactualwarwhichAmericaendedupwinningdespiteBritain'ssuperiorarmyandinthenAmericawasleftwithamessofstatestanddisagreeablefoundingfatherstocometoaconsensusandfiguresomethingout.
Okay, I don't know if you actually
got anything from that
but basically
it was a rushed (sort of) summaryish
of the American Revolutionary war
...
ish.
Well, I mean I've only learned
about it from one side
Anyway, by now I almost know the facts
we learn in school here
as well
as the back of my hand
...
which I don't know very well by the way
why do people even use that?
Anyway, it's not completely old material
that we're learning
because
now,
there's analyzing too
Just today we analyzed the differences
between
Federalists
and Anti-federalists
...
Okay,
you probably don't want the
nitty-gritty details
...
And that concludes my
(Strange)
tirade/(I can't really call it a tirade because it wasn't angry
so maybe narration?)
About history class
...
Hope this quirky
piece of writing
gave you a few smiles!
(Or if not confusion works too.)
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
Crack it, then Scrutinize
Dissect when it’s analyzed
Decrypt, don’t thoroughly dismantle,
Stay calmed, don’t be rattled.
Observe, all the occurences,
list down, for your reference.
bolt in, shoot the solution,
release the gaunlet of execution!
if there's a mistake,
move on, let it be.
just track your fate,
Don't rely on ctrl+Z.
holes are expected,
Decision is your asset,
well if you can't go on then,
press reset. just try again
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 1:01 AM UTC
I tossed and turned my options in the palm of my hand,
already knowing the answer I wanted before fate had
chosen for me.
I over analyzed every word and every gesture like a
crazed 13 year old girl. I couldn't help but get worked
up over you.
It's been awhile since I was ready to open my heart
again. I am still so afraid of heartbreak because the
pieces are still lying on the floor from six months ago.
I've never had to endure rejection before and maybe
it's about **** time I wake up and realize that it will
happen to me eventually, I am not impervious to love's
bittersweet rejection although I'd like to believe I am.
All the times we've had have been reeling in my mind,
my dreams, my every thought, like a motion picture
film. moments we shared that I've never thought twice
about until now.
Times like the night I sat in your bed and told you all
my greatest fears and secrets. You said, "I just don't want
him to hurt you." You gave me a crying shoulder and let
me fall asleep feeling safe.
Times like when we used to joke about getting married
and we would laugh because we were best friends but
deep down I hoped that someday you might be serious.
Sophomore year you found her and I already had him
but inside I was jealous. I buried my jealousy and let it
go.
Times like the past three weeks... I had laid my head on your
pillow just like all the nights before but this time you said, "Is
it weird if I want to kiss you?" We kissed... A lot.
Times like the past three weeks... you kissed me in front of all
our friends, or when we were in your car singing some boy band
song and you kissed me at the stop sign, we kissed all night.
Times like two days ago... I gave it all up, I gave myself to you.
You said I was beautiful, you were drunk and you also said you loved
my ****
Times like last night... you treated me like I was your worst enemy.
You flaunted her around me, you held her perfect body just
like you had held mine the night before. She left, I was hurt, you
were drunk again. I tried to help you and you told me to get
the **** out. That was the coldest goodbye as you slammed
the door in my face.
Times like these past three weeks... I've been sitting here,
troubled by your actions. Dreaming about you, terrified
of losing you. I haven't heard a word from you since I came
home to a different reality two hours away but it feels like
decades.
Tonight, I tossed and turned the options in the palm of my
hand. Should I go for it? Or should I just let it go? Sunday,
I'll be trembling, heart pounding when I see your face. I
chose what I had hoped fate would tell me to do. Sunday
I may face rejection but at least I tried.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Humanity is simplistic contrary to the complex, misunderstood, myriad of separately analyzed individuals that psychologists, artists, poets, and scientists paint it to be. Each person is labeled with a different disorder founded by their apparently personal past tragedies and harbors the wholehearted, mistaken, belief that they are alone in their “tragedy” which is indeed not tragedy but a side effect to the human condition, and arguably, to the optimist, one of life’s sacred milestones. Humanity likes to romanticize these milestones. They dress up their societal deemed shameful past with cashmere sweaters, line their lips with the grief of loss, and sweep their eyes with trust issue mascara all in an effort to pronounce themselves worthy and prove themselves beautiful despite their “unique” past events and tragic flaws. But they are not unique. When you peel off the pearls, when you delete the username, when you strip away the added flair to each sad story, humanity is all the same. They all front loss of some sort, they’ve all battled insecurity, they’ve all woken up one day perhaps wishing they hadn’t woken up at all. They’ve all laughed, cried, chased after the fleeting ideal of love, and questioned its palpability. They’ve each found themselves in a situation that made them ponder their ability to ever trust again, if they could ever love again, if they could ever be the same again; but what they don’t realize is that they are all the same. Rough the personal and each person is the same, just with a different name. Step back and behold, these seemingly individual fallacies of the human condition all spin together to weave a simplistically complex web.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 9:49 PM UTC
Back before the hurt
I thought
I analyzed it all
and it had all made perfect sense
I was thinking it could not fail me
Now the damage is done,
thinking becoming no longer an option
No thoughts
No words
I was thinking
before
I do not think
anymore
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
What will happen
what will be
is something, that's quite new to me
Every given outcome
calculated, analyzed
actions, as my mind, is now, paralyzed
Simple mathematical
adding ones, and twos
a simple something, that I just can't do
Standing face to face
perplexed and overwrought
caught in eyes so gray
all answers to all questions
as now all of them
I've got
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
There's more than one way to turn two bodies
Into one.
Instead,
**** my soul till it's raw.
Fill me to the brim with your broken ego.
I'll dance my catastrophic tongue along your weak spot,
Your achilles heel.
Which, of course,
Is me breaking your ego.
I'll let you penetrate me with a silent stare,
Oh god,
Yes there.
Dive into my insecurities,
Call my bluff,
Put me on a pedestal,
Rigged to collapse into ruins.
I like when you push me.
Don't break me,
Ecstasy comes when I break myself,
Smash myself into over analyzed bits and sociopathic pieces.
Faster.
Harder.
Make it harder for me to figure you out,
Give me a challenge.
**** yes,
I love a challenge.
Reading an open book is easy,
Picking up a locked journel off an abandoned bookshelf,
Now that pushes me over the edge.
Let's change into a more comfortable position,
Where you ramble an incoherent childhood stories,
And I retort loudly in my native language,
And you storm off because no one is right,
And no one is wrong.
And you get off on the point that there is no point.
Just build it up.
More.
****
****
More.
Touch my mind.
Don't touch my heart,
No stop.
Yes there.
A little more.
Dzięki.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
Poems about roads,
poems about ravens,
Poems about monsters,
and poems about roses.
What do they mean? The road is a life,
the raven a regret,
the monster is you
and the rose is-
What.
What happened to this?
Why can't it just be a rose?
A flower with thorns and red petals?
“But the thorns are hardship and-”
No. Don't pretend you understand.
Don't give meaning to the meaningless.
Let the words speak on their own.
Interpret, sure, but don't over-analyze.
Let the words come and flow
unbroken by the lines of a chart,
splitting stanzas and lines into more manageable chunks.
Poetry is an art not meant for a spreadsheet.
Words flow from the heart and the soul,
from the subconscious where meaning is meaningless.
Where poetry remains whole.
I scratch my pen across the page
like a pen scratching across a page,
writing a poem about poetry,
Really.
I write cloud and it means cloud,
I scrawl raven and I mean the bird,
I tap out road, and it refers to the pavement
and when I say rose, I mean rose.
Beauty is not always in complexity,
sometimes it rests in simplicity.
Simplicity of thought and
of interpretation.
When my heart is aching
and I want to cry, how else can that be said?
When I make it an enigma:
crystal drops from earthen orbs
when I say what I want:
I buried my face in my hands
and sobbed.
Both equally beautiful,
both equally poetic
one clearly understood by anyone reading.
Poetry is my art, and I would hate to see it picked apart
like a frog in a biology class.
Each stanza
cut
apart
word by word
and phrase by phrase
to find any hidden meanings therein.
I've hidden nothing.
But don't over-analyze that statement.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 8:58 AM UTC
sitting here
staring at these boring beige walls
with someone staring back at me
as I try to put my thoughts into words
don't sound stupid
no desperation
no neediness
no attention
being analyzed is an interesting thing
because you can feel the ****
of knowledgable eyes in your brain
so your walls go up
stop staring at me
because help doesn't exist
when you don't want it
and there is no cure
for the monsters in my brain
tearing
ripping
clawing at my psyche
whispering
sweet nothings into my subconscious
bland, practiced words stream out of my mouth
bubbling over with the dull tone of indifference
boredom
and ultimately,
cringe-worthy sadness.
if only you could actually understand
that the monsters are my friends
their darkness inspires me
reminds me of the heaven
found six feet below my own heels
now I'm standing,
with a rehearsed smile on my mask
and a hollow 'thank you'
before I return to the beige walls
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
knowing the simple implementation
of all this ****** frustration
into some kind of mechanization
into the institutionalization
of something you'd call psychoanalysis.
i've analyzed
i've criticized
i've materialized
i've realized
that we're all waiting for our final grade.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
The subject of this email is as usual... subjective! Not sure there is actually a subject involved? I mean if I just ramble on about any old thing that crosses my mind, how would that be described as a subject. I submit that the "subject" line of all emails should be moved to the end of an email! That way we would have a better grasp of what the subject of the email truly is.
Better yet it should automatically prompt you to go to the subject line when you click "send" to fill in at that time. Maybe the email program should even give samples of possible subject lines based on google's interpretation of what you have typed in the body of the email. Better yet that program should just run automatically and impose a subject line based on the information in the message body after it is run through several psychiatric data bases and analyzed and a consensus has been reached...
Hmmm... Now I'm thinking that there should be a mind to keyboard interface so we can do away with all this time-consuming typing! And while we're at it why not add a chip in our brains that thinks for us and sends the data it receives directly to the keyboard interface... I mean think of all the time we would save not having to think any more!
Why stop there? We can also add emotion chips so that when we are letting our thinking chip talk for us we can also have the emotions that our emotion chip thinks we should be feeling automatically inserted into the email with the capability of it being felt by the emotion chip in the person whose thinking and keyboard interface chips are perusing the email written by our thinking and keyboard interface chips.
Ooooh now I'm really thinking... why not install mini SD drives in our brains so we can change the way we feel by simply inserting a new SD card? That way if we happen to read one of the emails thought out by our thinking chip, written by our keyboard interface chip, analyzed and consented to by the psychiatric data bases and given a subject and we decide that we want to change the way it is perceived by the thinking chip of the recipient we can simply insert a different emotion SD card into our SD drive and have those new emotions embedded directly into the email!
*** This is genius! Imagine the time we could save! I could just go on and on with this! The applications are limitless. Why hasn't someone thought of this before? Oh wait, what am I thinking... this is old news. This is called brainwashing and the government and every major company in the world has been doing it since the dawn of capitalism!
I'm going to stop now because I am no longer sure if the words I write are my own, or if they are just a bunch of noise created by the humm of all the post hypnotic suggestive clutter in my brain from years and years of commercial TV and slick politician abuse.
That's all I have time for this morning. I apologize in retrospect for the emotional agony I have put your brain through while reading this inane banter...
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC