"artsy" poems
Well you see the thing to understand is poetry is a gospel to the world.
At first you feel as if it is oppressive chains tying you down to the soiled earth with every simplistic tick tock.
That is at least until you discover this world has no rules for an adventurer of free verse.
Your words now flow like an expeditious brook as long as you use metaphors with pretentious words.
However rules exist it is plain to see.
Some poems go aabb.
Those are simple ones to find.
Those are the ones stuck in your mind.
Now one more step, aabbc.
Those are a little more artsy.
You draw your crowd in.
Get under their skin,
And finish a little bit different.
And now it's time for set number three.
One that can simply astound.
The great, magnificent abab.
Those make a poet nearly profound.
There are couplets, sonnets, and monoryhms.
And now for the last one, all in good time.
I wanted you all to hear them like chimes,
But all that I had I left you in these lines.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 11:26 PM UTC
i felt like talking that night
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
discussing
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory
afterwards
we went to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of its history
a slight stench of ****
and dingo tongue
dripping toilet
all peeling walls
intimating births, cheer and squalor
after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we followrd each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
**** here my darlings
and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
I salvaged the loneliness
of my soul between your thighs
like a desolate dog whimpering
thanking God with every graze and ******
of your all supple shifting limbs
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips like blood hydras
laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked
smeared
with your rouge painted thighs
appearing as if half eaten
you growled swallowed and
licked big butter piggy
till your nose ran like the Ganges
gagging
eyes bloodshot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue
we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like slime silver
radiating
and finally used to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping sails
our eyelids leaden
the night mist fell upon us
muttering shadows
and our *** shriveled
like cast-off umbilici
and we fell to sleep
steep steep
buoyant
like two buttermilk clouds
adrift
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Stubby fingers, in a world where you seek long, artsy hands;
With the thumb that still looks like that of a child.
No, it isn't something that should be envied.
Put my palm to yours and it will not hesitate in feeling small, insignificant, giving you that ego boost you so desperately seek.
But it holds the power to support. It holds within it, the power of perseverance, hard work, and creating.
It does not flinch while it works like yours does. It doesn't shy away. Instead it makes the grip firm, steady. Unwilling to give up so easy.
Hello, hands. I accept you.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
When we talk
We reckless teenagers
We rebels without causes
We James Deans of the world
We talk about wanted tattoos
"A 3 on my back"
"Wings"
"On my lip"
And piercings
"My nose"
"My belly button"
And alcohol
"Icelandic chocolate"
*****
"Whiskey"
Because we want to do the things
We can't
We're on the edge
The brink
Does that make us reckless?
Greedy?
Something to be laughed at?
It makes us human.
We're greedy.
We want to be different
So we sit in circles
And curse and drink
And play stupid games
Like truth or dare
Because we're reckless
And we talk about ***
Talk back to our parents
Because we worship sarcasm
And complain about how poor we are.
What else can you expect
From artsy
Reckless
Hipster
New York kids?
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
I hate poetry.
I think it's a waste of time.
Trying to think of ways to say things.
And then to make them rhyme!
Some poems are dark and artsy.
Some poems make you laugh.
Some poems make you think or cry.
And some poems are plain ol' crap.
Some poets wear thin mustaches.
Some poets wear fancy hats.
Some poets make up their own words.
Some gilberty hilberty crat.
But I'll tell you this my friend.
That there's nothing in the world more truer.
I'd rather pick up a pen and write.
Than pick up a shovel and move manure.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:57 PM UTC
Canvases.......layered on floor and ready to go.
Brushes.........no need we used your body parts.
Lighting........soft and turned dim then very low.
Ready willing and able to create works of art.
Waited with shallow breaths in deep anticipation.
Drew back curtain to expose my Nubian queen.
I was breathless as you stood before me naked.
Art creating will never be the same after that.
Still thinking of all the memories we created Betty
and your smile and **** voice saying you loved me. : )
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
Past altered states tests postive and subtle
******* So and so's teeter Paleolithic après time puddles
And submit terrible philosphies
Ashy stubble ticks politics
and sacrafice to peer approval sacralige
Test probably appears stable
Top patriarch's able suddenly to
Pop above submerged tables possibly
After, something tests patience awkwardly
Stumps tarot practioners and *** testers poor application sterily
Topology plain, astrology scorpio
Torpedo power aptly strikes to pedal antlers sour
Take particular appointments
Stop testing please apply sorted
Terror power and sexless torn pigs
afterhours pen and store tips, plow.
Alter simians testosterone, pow!
As scientists type papers about sexing tasteless past alligator snouts
testing partly after science takes party alliance south to pawn army
subtle tipped passion. artsy.
Start these.
pick atoms smarmy
Tally past all sentences take pride
As stencils test pestilence. And sigh.
The previous alterations simply tried.
And didn't work, hence the present
Path lit incandescent.
I'm looking towards the east waiting for positivity to peak
You're turned backwards nostalgic for something that'll never come repeat.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
The Artsy Black Girl
She weaves fabric through her fingers; mere cloths of Nothing.
From It, creation comes.
You watch her inhale energies that drip like liquid gold in shimmering puddles
Below her,
You wait to exhale.
You did not know you were not breathing.
You did not see you were so engulfed.
She knew that you would be.
And, so, w flowers in her hair and bells on her hips,
She tips her waist in rhythmic twists
and turns
and whisssspers this:
"I hope you can withstand it."
Tantric, isnt she?
Eve genes are her makeup.
From her, you came.
This..
Artsy Black Girl
dances spells around you
To music her melanin makes
And you..?
You stare
And wish upon stars within galaxies she manifested,
that you could be like her-
The Artsy Black Girl.
And she knew that you would.
From gods she descended;
W an all knowing mind, she pretended to know nothing
W intentions of blinding you
-unfinished
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 8:32 PM UTC
i want to remember with you,
i want to forget with you.
the times when time would fly by
like the birds on the horizon
of this pastel oklahoma sky
never within reach,
but we’d always find a way
to make a pseudo-artsy instagram photo of the sight
i’d try to summon thoughts to speak,
to fill in awkward silence with awkward advances
but then i’d look at you,
bitten lips
sun-stained face
half chewed nails
and the last thing i wanted to hear
was the sound of my own voice
i used to imagine your hair a little messier,
your eyes a little kinder,
your style a little more eccentric,
but i never wanted to change who you are.
i want to remember with you,
i want to forget with you.
when we’d sit and stare at the people
we wished we never met,
and the one’s we didn’t want to.
drowning in our own cynicism
i think i was the one holding your head underwater
and i’m sorry my half-empty attitude got the best of us,
but hating people was what made us fall in love,
and i’ve never admitted to being a pessimist
because i never wanted to be.
i wanted to be what you wanted.
i want to remember with you
i want to forget with you
skipping stones across a dried up river
making wishes, singing jimi hendrix
like it was the soundtrack to our summer.
i felt the most vulnerable whenever we'd drive home
and the most infinite
the wind combing my hair,
your hand in mine
we both knew what we were thinking,
but neither of us said it,
not wanting to ruin the moment,
not wanting it to be the truth.
i want to remember with you
i want to forget with you
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
I'm attracted to men who do things
the hippie health nut rock climbers
the con-going, larping nerds
the artsy poetry writing, painters
I'm attracted to results,
to getting up off the couch and going
to hikers, and bikers, to MMA fighters
these are the men that I want
The men who get up in the morning
with a purpose
the men who know where they're going
and why they're doing what they do
The men with mettle, with strength, with power
I want a man who takes control
Who's not afraid to spend an evening
away from me
If we have differing interests
He won't give up what he loves
for any woman
I'm turned on by men
with steel in their bones
With iron in their hearts
who don't take their hits lying down
To men with hobbies with talent
with ideas and dreams
that they're making happen
not just pondering
I hate talk
The muscles built for sight's sake
aren't worth a **** thing to me
I need skills, a brain with the bulk
I want a man who rarely rests
who never stagnates
who can take me out to do something new
I'm attracted to men who do things
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
Have love ever been easy to deal with sympathy?
Just so, Her iron lung breathing calamity of apathy
Beyond eyes and words ,her beauty spoke
Kindle once vital, now perish slow with smoke
Suffocation cannot feel this good, can it?
a crime of love shall never see acquit
A poetess sung for me a poem of love
Soft words - with stings of venomous dove
Being so deluded by some natural artsy
Dreams woven on silent obscure spree
Cold touch of her once warm soul
Shattering pieces now never be whole
Poignant themes of once happy souvenir
Whispering breeze of lonely December
Brings me smile then tears falls down
a deep breath sigh and again I avow
holding onto the keepsake- my folded hands try
Squeezed by broken dreams- once more I cry!
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
I thought, you. And then I stared and wished that I was back
in your line of sight, that time that you tried to
take a photo of me and I held up my hand. You had never
even touched it. It was deemed artsy and you used
me to pick up chicks who thought you were creative. The many
times I thought yes, and felt yes from you too. But all
we did was stare and I want to touch your Greek hair just
once. And I sold smiles and sweets to strangers while
you gave out pop and judgements. How comedic, how blase.
How soon could I get you to never stop thinking about me?
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
Oh, you got your politico pals
Posting stuff about them blues-and-reds
Oh you got your new-age pals
Posts about their chakra dreads
Oh you got your pervy pals
Posts about their whips and spread
Oh you got your journal pals
Posts about their EX and meds
Oh you got your comic pals
Posts of grumpy cat in bed
Oh you got your trendy pals
Posts of food and celeb weds
Oh you got your gossip pals
Posts about what so-so said
Oh you got your music pals
Posts of bands on every thread
Oh you got your mother pals
Posts of how their babies fed
Oh you got your nightlife pals
Posts of each local they’ve tread
Oh you got your righteous pals
Post of what you need instead
Then you got your artsy pals
Oh someone shoot me in the head!
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
We take the night
Flourish when our minds are most at ease
In between the artsy and the ghetto,
It's gonna take some doing to really change
Maybe if there's someone else
Who isn't too young to save, too irresponsible
We'd be taken to a more realistic edge
Get down and face it,
We don't need as much
As we think we do
Here we are, and here we go
I've been trapped
Lost in a cage
Planning for a great escape
But whether or not
It could happen to me,
I really can't say.
Today you're where I'm at
Where I want to be -
This can happen to me,
I believe I believe
We've investigated a thousand new names
like what I've got isn't good enough for fame
Surprise, surprise - money buys everything,
Actuality and Individuality
it's a state of realism we can't escape
Looking, you don't find flaws in anything
but you know the difference between
poetry and a shallow being
Let's be real here, crazy, let's be real
we feed off of one anothers intricacies
A beauty in ecstasy and believability
I've tried to melt into someone else
Then before nothing made sense
until you, impossibility
There's nothing to compromise
It's just you and I,
fitting
I'm not numb,
some would find that irksome
but I'm glorified in the feeling
*I find that place on your chest
That beats like a bomb
A keyboard synthesized to play my song
With every breath you grow lost
Confused by each tear
A lapse in judgement, in character
I don't fear, I don't fear.
I have my fingers pressed into you
Like it means something-
"Don't you see?"*
We'll be more than we ever expected could be.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 10:03 AM UTC
( im sitting here watching this medicine
drip drip drop
the clock is making a ticking noise and im trying to focus my attention on it
this stuff makes me loopy i swear
**and none of my thoughts are making much sense at the moment
which is making me sound extra artsy and poetic)**
watch;
this false ownership
we say our universe and our planet because we see something gorgeous in it all and as humans we instinctively want to have ownership over things; it's the same kind of scenario as when a young child wants the cutest kitten or the prettiest flower
or in the way that i call you mine
i ask myself all the time
did i find you? are you mine?
~
the sun is at my back
and the sky matches his eyes
we're almost touching
our mouths hover close
god this thing that we are creating
it is infinitely beautiful
when im getting these treatments called actual hell
*i close my eyes
i let visions of him play in my mind
every time i hear his voice a kind of silence washes over me
and for the first time in my life i know who im destined to be and
who im meant to be with
and no other thing has ever felt like belonging to him does
this is how i was made
and here i am
almost home
just not quite
none of this can be undone
and i will never be the same because of him*
l o g a n
these letters? they might be my favorite
(they are)
this boy is so marvelous
when he spoke to me for the first time i swear i think the sun stopped to kiss the night
the sun burned holes into the sky
it spoke to the earth and sang to the universe
rays and waves and secret forms of communication
cracks formed in the earth and it opened up to show all of the things that had been lying dormant inside waiting for us
new things began to bloom
there were flowers born
shooting up out of the mud
overwhelming light bursting out of them
the flowers tore themselves wide open
to show us what was hidden inside
**his eyes flashed fire
and his eyes flashed nebulas**
**** my heart would've died otherwise
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC
I could get into the whole
an artist says a hard thing in a simple way
but that doesn't seem to be the case
if I have to see one more black and white photo
of an empty playground
I'll burn every camera store to the ground
and if I hear anymore about how pained your soul is
I might just shoot myself
artsy fartsy
silly *****
these words come willingly
but truth be told
I'd rather read the ingredients on my shampoo bottle
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
in my mind, it was always
a perfect ten
below zero, just cold enough
for me to shiver
and for your nose to turn a rosy pink
and for me to hide a dark thought
behind warm words, excused
by the curtain of soft snow
falling around us
i guess i overplayed this scene
i guess i cut and stripped it
set music to our footsteps
and played it up, all romantic angles
and close-up frames
hovering too long
over your awkward, shifting smile
i guess it wasn't really musical
no artsy, black-and-white short film
not even worth the imagery
that i gave it in each long piece of poetry
just worth enough
for me to hum along
when i hear the song
that i put to the scene, hoping
you'd recognize the tune
here in the cutting-room of my heart
i gave up
sat down on the floor, scattered images
floating down
and i grabbed my scissors
cutting each one into a snowflake
before it hit the ground
trying to recreate that scene
the way i remembered it
and in the darkness, i could ignore
the desperate feeling
of an imagination run too wild
i guess i overplayed this tune
but sometimes
when the words don't come easily
to my real-time writing, i am forced
to look backwards in time and space
across mountains of disgraced, forgotten things
back to a time
when all i could write about was you
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
"You don't look like you write poetry.."
Well, why not?
Is it because I am an athlete?
Is it because you misinterpret my personality?
Is it so hard to believe,
I can put my thoughts down
In a way I feel better?
Tell me,
Tell me please.
What does a poet look like?
Do all of them look the same?
Act the same?
Messy hair and beanies.
Scarves and hot tea.
Hipsters.
Suicidal or lovestruck.
Black or white.
The "artsy" types.
Typical stereotypical ideas of poets.
But we are not the same.
We are all different,
Except for one thing,
We all understand each other.
So please never judge me again,
Just because you don't understand
Our world.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
can
i
have
a
moment
of
your
time
?
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
I'm conscious I am a rambling idiot
I sometimes see a glimpse of sense,
Patterns created by me
I like to say I'm artsy
I know the real reality
I'm just a depressed mess,
Picking up trash and calling it crafts
Thinking I may have finally gotten it right,
I awake and it never changes
Life is thickening up fast like a poor made dessert
I just stand here with my fork, in hopes it'll cool down
My tongue is destroyed,
It no longer can take the burn
So be warned don't serve me overcooked confections
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
A child with fine features,
blue eyes,
learns from teachers--
deep below our perceptive thought,
our Einstein philosophies,
and artsy intellectualism.
She multiplies the rose bushes,
across the Italian culture,
so romantic,
so fair.
breathing only to discover a Shakespearean air,
about herself.
She knows more than most,
sitting just above the state of human consciousness.
Reality is reigned by being just.
If one could know,
if the lion tamed,
of cruel desires,
and citrus teas.
We would object,
justification.
What beauty lay below a rose bush?
Nothing, muck.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
you two walk toward the sun like what you have is no big deal - but it is.
the tall dark and handsome by the artsy blonde.
that is special, and the sun is shining, and you two are together in the sun, and that is special.
so put your arms around each other and show us that you know what you have is beautiful!
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC