"antihero" poems
Forget chivalry
Forget familiar nicety
Best tread carefully
I'm not my usual me
I'll not be the hero... Doing good
Simply because I'm in no mood
I'll go about my business
Steer clear, don't be careless
No sweet chirping of birds
Only sarcasm laden words
I'll wear no smile... Only smirks
Behind which may hold sharpened dirks
Don't waltz into my space
Like you know your place
Don't think I won't lash
Don't think I won't be brash
No 'Mister Niceguy'
Just let this day go by
With no alarms, no surprises
No incidents, no clashes
I might be back tomorrow
But today you must know
As I lace my steeltoed boot
Today I don my antihero suit
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
I've never had that crisp good nature
I never want to have it
I am no superman
I am a Brawn
Young
Powerful
Indestructible
Unstoppable
Stronger
***** your rules
Now i am free of you
***** your perfect mold
***** them all
Saving a cat
**** THAT
Why not a bank vault?
Save a few dollars from the government
The thrill of battle
The ecstasy of intoxicating cash
The sweet taste of challenge
Always stronger
I am not your hero
I'd just as soon rob you as save you
I'll save you only because
Without you I have no one to rob!
I am the Antihero
I am the perfect defender of man
**** or save i can do both
I am not perfect
A rampage is as effective as a ****** round
I am the hero in the shadows
I am Power
I am Freedom
I am Imperfect
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
there is no such thing as an antihero,
only a villain
who has found an exuse,
an antagonist who can speak more prettily than
all the others
who can lie holes straight through
the hero's
heart,
find their place in the universe
and blot it out on the map because
the universe
does not tend towards anything
but solitude.
you will find yourself all alone.
you will find yourself all
alone
and you can snap the neck of every doll you own but
despair will never be anything more than
an unrequited love, an
attachment that you never grew out of, a
high school crush that you stapled to your heart so as you grew it was like
a gastric bypass
you cannot hold as much love in your heart
as your mother
said you could
but you can kiss and sigh and with every moue you'll wonder just
why
your chest feels fit to burst when you get any deeper than
touch
heart fit to rupture you are the main villain
of every book
i've read
the antagonist in every story you are
the angry girl whose doll parts
lay in pieces
at her feet
whose bomb will detonate if you get too close
{the character i could relate to the most the character i hated the most the character
i talked to whenever i could and
memorized every line to replay, god
i hate
the way you speak
and i want
to hear
it more}
i ripped out your staples and added my own.
{despair will never reciprocate but
i understand you i
do
because we are the same and i hate you because
you hate yourself
and i could give you nightmares every night and
listen to your motives
every
morning
'people are disgusting'
you said
as if it was
a revelation}
you're not ****** up, just out of luck
because four-leaf clovers can't survive droughts.
you are seventyeight percent water
and every drop you spent on
drowning
the background characters
and every doll on your bedroom floor
{i love the way you cry when you laugh because every time
i hope
that one, that one tear
is the final drop wrung from the shroud
of a sailor a burial at sea
and you will crumble
into
dust}
you angry girl your eyes
are a yellowing bruise on the storyline
your backstory is a rash
on the protagonist's hands
and all your inner demons told you you were not alone but
you explained them away and
appeals to pity left you empty.
i will rip out all your staples i
will make you
seventyeight percent
saltwater
my heart is a mirror you can find yourself there and
reassemble yourself
from all your broken parts
i will be the blueprint from which
you rebuild
yourself
{a story is nothing
without
a villain}
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
Some micro poems about antiheroes.
I give my best friends black eyes,
I wont lye,
Some of it's their blood,
Some of it's mine,
But I cant talk about the first rule.
Tick tok,
Whirring cogs and grinding gears,
Going after low hanging fruit,
While we're,
Singing in the rain.
Returning video tapes,
Often leads to Huey Lewis and the news,
Raincoat, reservation, rat, rage,
I escape through blood lust and *******
But this is not an exit.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
Antihero
An old stone built tower stands above all on the skyline;
The curves of its body twisting spiral’s in the air.
The moon shines around its peak, which reaches up so very high.
It is surrounded by a castle keep,
That is an image of a burnt out nightmare.
The castle walls are in pieces, like its people,
Cannon fodder their game.
The drawbridge has fallen, but the iron gate still remains.
The shadows in the night speak of a desire to be the enemy within.
The voices of the fallen spit out their final endless scream’s.
The sound of war is upon the castle door.
No more escape for its inhabitants,
Apart from those who are fleeing through the century old tunnel.
The secret passage to a way away from all the savage.
The army continues to do battle, at the top of ladders and ramparts.
All have been affected by this battle’s damage.
The sorcerer of this cursed land,
Stands in the furthest, most high room,
Shooting lightning at the wall tops as the chaos reigns below,
Where all is doom
And in a final decisive action,
The sorcerer reads from his big black book;
The ground shakes, the fire falls and all enemy are shook
And thrown from their steeds in front of the castle gate.
In pieces they bleed and from the tops of the castle walls,
Those who are falling will never be saved.
They crash to the floor and become no more.
The sorcerer falls to his knees, exhausted of power,
But he has put an end to this midnight war.
No protection was given by the enemies armour.
Their swords and shields crashed loudly as they hit the ground.
The enemy is no longer the invading warrior;
They are all running in fear and their last sounds are all dying out.
As the sorcerer takes the final step down from his twisted tower,
He pushes open the thick oak wooden door.
As he walks out into the open air courtyard his face is a glower;
No living enemy can be seen, because the enemy are no more.
His men are all cheering and shouting his name,
But the sorcerer is not laughing with them, for he has a plan.
He tells them this morrow they will all fight again,
So they must all prepare to once more stand.
Some voices of discontent whisper within the ranks;
Some of them openly criticize his view.
As he creates a ball of flame that hovers above the palm of his hand,
They all realize he has been their antihero
And he could be their demise too…if he chooses to.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 8:51 PM UTC
put down thy pen,
it is in disrepute,
smash thy tablet,
crack its glass...
house the mouse,
don't be an ***
genus human,
you have been
antihero morphed
anthromorprophesized,
****** simply, replaced
you poem prophecy
returned,
stamped,
Unneeded, Unread, Unheeded
you have been excused,
you have been recused,
jury, a chamber of inconclusive noises
dismissed,
the judge will digitally
write all
from now on...
submit your selected tags
for laughs,
a different poem returned to you,
by a digital "humanist"
what do I crave?
give me your youthful typos,
let me literate critique
the good, the bad, the
trite repetitive and especially
the ugly
poetry,
the kind only
humans can write
so I love or hate it,
your literacy,
with impassioned dispassion,
the kind no machine will e'er transcend
pull the plug on your random alphabet generator,
Eliot of York,
or you might find yourself
upgraded into unempoement!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
one. he will see right past the clever disguises and camouflage that you use to deter the world from your weary self. he will see directly into your character; into your heart and your soul. he will like what he sees, and he will want more. he will write about it.
two. after writing about your soul until it has exhausted his own, he will surface for air. there he will notice your body. he will be mesmerized by its curves and valleys. he will want to bathe in your very presence, as if the radiance of your body will make him think the way you think. he will write about it.
three. he will dream up a future for the two of you, a hopelessly impossible love story with just the right amount of heartbreak. he will be dissatisfied when life doesn't follow his carefully scripted plot. he will realize he has crafted you into the perfect antihero. he will write about it.
four. he will attempt to find a way to immortalize you. he will want the idea of you to live on like a musty echo rocking the surface of our dry and cavernous earth. he won't accept the fact that his darling was never made for eternity. he will write about it.
five. he will wonder if his words have corrupted you. the portrait he has made barely resembles you at this point. he will not know what to say to you anymore, because unlike the words on the page, you left. he will write about it.
six. he will ponder life without you. even things like grocery shopping and brushing teeth will be different without you by his side. he will struggle, but his heart will heal. he will write about it.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
She was in love with the hydrogen bomb
the way his muscles dragged to the floor
caused grief in the streets
like the brazen antihero riding his motorcycle into the sunset
burgundy pink, leaving trails of glory and decay
between his feet
like the spit that ricocheted off the wall
into the permeated faces of
those she grew up with but held nothing but disdain
Contempt for their way of life
that so much imposed hers
there’s lead in his tongue
she drinks it with a slice of lime on the side
but she doesn’t know why
when he calls with a threat
like the whipping of knuckles
across her shimmery skin
she accepts that even the sun
causes damage
if you let it in for too long
she was in love with the hydrogen bomb
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
The cold dissonance formed like the frost on a leaf of late October - It's the way it crumbled.
They believed in what they were subject to
like not conveying feelings is in fashion
I tell you its a flawless fall
Thus closes the locket shaped like love that held it all side by side, a thousand words less.
And you flash your teeth as a smile unzips across your face, gaze at your reflection and all you see is an endless maze.
We have reached the point of no return, you have no choice but to embrace the gathering dark.
The currency is forgiveness but our pockets are empty.
You think that dying alone is inevitable and the "antihero" of our hearts never gets the girl.
But it doesn't have to be that way just for the sake of poetry. Drop the broken sword.
Indelible feelings brought us to the table, a setting of conjecture and dying settlements. The question is "Who deserves peace?"
Pick up the pen and write your name.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
I bleed like a villain who
has clawed redemption
from his veils with his fingernails,
the blood of forgiveness
purged from a sinner,
we gouge at broken hearts
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
I.
she was so
beautiful between my
sheets you just
couldn't stand it
you fought for
me first all
wars must end
sometime
II.
and wherever
the gods are
they're jealous of
us for loving
so endlessly
III.
my
antihero my heart
my backbone my
breastplate my battle
to lose it
was all worth
it
IV.
for one
night with her
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Gets no love the one who doesn't love.
It's not Karma, but simple logic.
Even if he does, it's a sort of odds,
Making the canon candid.
It's not Karma, but simple logic;
The misanthrope is alone -
Who doesn't like water, will suffocate in,
Who doesn't like life, will be perishing in.
The misanthrope is alone.
This is all a matter of nature-
One may hide in a mass like serpent,
Still being poisonous, threatening.
This is all a matter of nature;
The old song of yin and yang-
Darkness isn't overthrown by brightness,
But they fulfill the scheme of destiny.
The old song of yin and yang-
The side uncursed by goodness
Is the side blessed with senselessness,
Extreme plainness and severity.
The side uncursed by goodness
Fulfills the dark side of the bright -
Without looking for doing the right
Since it's all self-implemented.
Fulfilling the dark side of the bright,
Giving chance for the light,
And bearing all the dark of the moon,
He may be a hero, the antigone.
Giving chance for the light,
Getting no love while another does,
We - people - serve perfect bad examples
For there's no hero without Antihero.
Getting no love while another does,
Even if getting that's out of odds;
Darkness isn't overthrown by brightness,
But each fulfills a scheme in destiny.
We've been and we'll be gone even as antigone.
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
"What will you be for Halloween,
Dear little son? Let's see…
What could you be for Halloween?
What would you like to be?"
"I want to be something very scary--
Something that makes the people wary…
A villain who has a spooky face
And makes the world an uglier place…
Who represents an antihero…
Whose record shows he's batting zero…
Who causes suffering everywhere
And acts as though he doesn't care.
That's what I'll be for Halloween;
That's what I want to be."
"What will you be for Halloween,
Dear little son? Let's see…
What could you be for Halloween?
What would you like to be?"
"I'll be the meanest person of all,
Who has no sense of protocol…
Maybe the biggest liar on earth,
Whose only care is what he's worth…
Who many call a political hack
Or a selfish egomaniac…
Who drags the people's names through the mud…
A vampire who is out for blood.
That's what I'll be for Halloween;
That's what I want to be."
"What will you be for Halloween,
Dear little son? Let's see…
What could you be for Halloween?
What would you like to be?"
"I want to make people ill at ease
By kissing up to enemies…
I want to make my critics cower,
The ones who say I abuse my power…
I want my poisonous words to flow
And boost the art of quid pro quo.
I'll pretend I'm heaven sent,
And so I'll be the PRESIDENT!
That's what I'll be for Halloween;
That's what I want to be."
-by Bob B (10-31-19)
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 12:18 PM UTC
Remember the days when our shoes were stolen by the earth.
And false Truths could only be read
On purple stained Popsicle sticks.
When we were willingly kidnapped by the
antihero's of our Fantasy.
And Stockholm Syndrome devoured us whole.
When false prophets graffitied their wisdom onto bathroom stalls.
While we washed our religions down the sink.
And our purpose along with it.
When the letters of every books pages flowed into us
Like a torrenting river we struggled to make sense of
But reinvented us all the same.
When we didn't believe a friends last words
Could be spoken through a mouth in the neck.
And the whisper we'd hear would fall victim to our failing memories.
When we met the loves our lives everyday of the passing decade.
How our hearts shattered into countless parts.
Yet we loved through the pieces of it all the same.
Perhaps these recollections have faded.
Perhaps they still reside here.
Or are mixed in with catalogs of fiction,
So that we can learn to make sense of all these things.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
We tangled in tropes,
two archetypes in love with the idea of change,
but never the act itself.
You thought I was the manic pixie dream girl,
a glittering deus ex machina sent to save you
with whimsy and wild eyes,
but I was just tired—
carrying too many rewrites in my pockets,
each one heavier than the last,
all of them missing their endings.
I thought you were the brooding antihero,
mystery wrapped in shadow,
a walking epilogue with smoldering regret,
but you were just scared—
your silence a monologue
no audience could bear to sit through,
your pauses dragging like curtain calls
for plays that never finished.
We wrote each other into scenes
with props we didn’t know how to use,
a wine glass left unbroken,
a door no one ever slammed.
The spotlight flickered between us,
a dim bulb refusing to hold
all the things we wouldn’t say.
When the script fell apart,
we blamed the writer,
the lighting, the set—
anything but the truth:
we were always the ones
tearing pages from the book,
ripping them before the ink had time to dry,
our story left trailing ellipses,
a script still curled on the floor,
waiting for hands that never returned.
Jan 7, 2025
Jan 7, 2025 at 12:30 AM UTC
My dear friend
My dear
I’m not sure what to make of you now -
Not a friend, to be sure;
I lost that privilege.
I understand I was so hard to love,
Or I was easy to love, but hard to hold on to
Like a wisp of smoke from a fire so bright
In a night so very dark
That it obscured
Any hint of care that still burned in me.
You were a forest fire of faith
that consumed cities in your wake,
And if I were in a satellite,
I would’ve seen you from outer space.
But I was prehistoric in my love,
Sending smoke signals showing
My adoration,
And you couldn’t see them
Against the backdrop of smog
That polluted my affection.
You were blind
and spoke through sound,
While I was mute
and spoke through sight,
And you were telling me that you heard
My pleas for help,
You were telling me that you cared.
But there was a language barrier,
My painting to your symphony,
So I couldn’t tell you how much
I appreciated everything
You had done for me.
And as the river of time bore down upon me
I may have lost all the negative in the current,
Or remembered the positive
With more grace than it deserved.
Maybe I have painted myself
as the poor and misunderstood antihero,
who returned to right their wrongs,
to write their wrongs,
when in reality, I was the villain,
who sees themself in a righteous halo
of furor, passion, and glory,
and I caused too much pain to ever
make up for any of the harm I bred.
I don’t know.
But I know that you deserve better
Than my continued silence.
So I’ll give with this apology
The embers of my passion
That burn evermore
With the knowledge that you are
Everything I could want in a friend.
You always were.
So thank you,
My dear
My dear friend.
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
An auspicious Australian awaits a antique apperature. Alive and awestruck he answers an abnormal anomaly. The apperature abscesses an automaton and away an albatross alights to an aviary awakening an awesome antihero. The aura of amazing allegory alleviates any alarm. As the Australian is an abhorred analytical analogy.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
i'll concede to this fact, sometimes Hollywood
does a decent film,
i'm starting to see a tract of:
as far as black comedies go...
no one does black comedies as good as
the H'americans...
maybe i was born too late
to laugh at the British stuff from...
whenever it was in the past century...
and whatever the new quirk is about...
i don't get it...
but H'american black comedy?
pitched genius...
sure... about schmidt
was labelled a black comedy...
but in comparison to what i've just
watched?
i.e. *three billboards outside ebbing,
missouri*?
out-stand-ing...
i'm not saying i'm much of
a film critic... but given the story
resembles the "archetype" of retribution...
revenge, or there-lack-of,
akin to the movie secret in their eyes...
retribution isn't concentrated on
the focus of the murderer, ******
it spreads... everyone is somehow affected
by each others' blame-game-shaming-fest...
everyone can have their soppy
story, their two cents thrown into
the lucky fountain...
and that's the brilliance of the movie:
the victim-hood tactics diffuse -
because everyone has a sad story,
the sad story isn't the story at all:
it's how people still manage to congregate
around a shining bright light
and pull along...
but that's still not the ultimate
genius of
*three billboards outside ebbing,
missouri*...
a well deserved supporting actor
Oscar for sam rockwell
playing jason dixon...
why?
he's the subtle sub-story
of the antihero archetype...
the sub-story just sits there,
subtle... but eventually more gripping...
it's not you want justice to be served...
or you're guessing who did it...
unlike in the instance
of secret in their eyes...
where the grief overburdens
the lead role...
there's a variant of being enraged
in a tragicomic way of
the lead in *three billboards outside ebbing,
missouri*...
perhaps because the lead role has
interactions with her remaining offspring,
and there's an abusive husband
hanging around...
but for me...
transfiguration...
like that Jesus bit...
the film is really all about
the antihero...
and thank god...
another superhero movie
and i'm going to puke...
what with deadpool being the other
antihero...
but unlike that sort of antihero story...
this is so genius in how subtle it is...
a well deserved supporting actor Oscar...
well done.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
You were my knight fighting off my darkness, allowing my light to shine. I was in awe about how you gifted me with happiness, when I myself could never create my own happiness. You broke me down and exposed the only will I had to be alive. Being my knight was only a facade to the antihero you truly were. You left me unprotected and alone, darkness has completely taken over, returning stronger and shattering my will to live.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 10:31 PM UTC
Philosophical poetry
The lonely jazz saxophone of solitude in poetic comic books of memories, with a slight eroticism of romance. All filled with philosophical silence and self-talk.
Almost finished cigarette, it is like a thought going to the logical conclusion of the arguments of philosophical poetry, where you are looking for a way out of prison of reality.
You play poker with the fate of someone luck, and someone pass. It rains from sinful tears; it does not make the city more conscientious, but a little cleaner. The city is in a fog of reflection, red lightning flashes of anger, black clouds of depression and then cold snow of indifference lit by the lifeless light of the curiosity of the gods.
Soon a new dawn of thoughts, a black and white reality of pessimism, where in bright colors of expressive contrasts of oppositions, there is only a faint light of conscience and animal instincts of darkness. Everywhere deep darkness says that the other world is very close and the door is always open there. Everywhere the harsh gray of deep thinking, the melodies of the emptiness of truth periodically resound.
Here everything is gray and only blood is red - the color of eternal guilt. Everything can become colored only from self-suggestion in bright colors of the illusions of optimism. The mind plunges into the darkness of gothic despair, and only the woman you love can pull out. Heart saves scars, but it does not stop, it continues to live for the sake of loved ones, for the sake of curiosity.
In this cold emptiness of the illusions of materialism, only true love warms the soul, but not lust, because after ****** you feel sad notes of loneliness, performed on the piano of sorrow. Lust is the girlfriend of selfishness, who is the six self-deception.
Vivid memories are a consoling prize of eternity, unlike life they are eternal - these are prose scenes of karma cinema.
Scenes comedians of heroes and villains, where you put up an antihero, and your tormentors victims. Here you feel literally every frame of sadism of fate.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 2:41 AM UTC
I knew
I was just another,
your antihero,
a notch for
your sweet pleasure.
Despite
my foregone conclusion,
I succumbed
to your wild-sexy-ways,
enjoyed an illusion with you
I wanted to
call real love.
I went down on you,
'cause I believed
in your beauty,
inside & out,
such a cutie,
heavenly from above.
Your whole being
I reveled in
& to leave
some of me
inside of you
was worth
the ton of heartache
I felt when you
were gone
the next morning.
I want you
to know darling,
I kept the pair
of flowered-panties
you left crumpled
under my empty bed,
the ones with
the tiny roses on them.
They're mine now,
do you miss them?
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
it’s a different kind of heartbreak
the one you’ve seen coming
yet avoided for too long
it’s the hurt and the sadness that comes along with it
Not after it
it’s when you realize that it is really happening
that your heart is shattering into million pieces
it’s like the inevitable is happening
Oct 25, 2022
Oct 25, 2022 at 11:59 AM UTC
Our antihero,
has now won something.
A real consolation prize.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 5:39 AM UTC
you are the era and the time
names carved in trees of flesh
works of art as if made by an insane savant
taped around
half finished plots
all on the ground
crumpled up
and beaten down
i am a twisted failure
a breathing bleeding heaving wreck
and i've got another name
carved in my flesh
you are the era and a stubborn donor of love
i've been like lonely deserts
you plant your flowers in my toxicity,
scream.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
Prithee darling - be my lover
We'll be in kindred philosophy - unite
For being enamoured - of passion
For all that tyrant interdict
You play - antihero
And I'll play - renegade
Wending to brighter day - we go
Eschewing shade
You play - Jacobean muse
And I'll play haughty heroine
Destinies - fuse
Intertwine
Two paths - never to be cleft
How ever can one light be bereft?
Loves light spread - by mimesis
My thesis
Of souls divine kinesis
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC