"autobiography" poems
A normal kind of guy
Just the guy
No cosmologist
Sans Christian
********* the droplet suns
Distant in the blackened sky
Gotta 'and'er some
The bristled gristle
The cryogenic iris
Steel teeth gnashing
Right-toe left
Ardent in an autobiography
Good man
Soft man
Locomoted his GMC
to the Sea
Thought maybe
With precise aim he
could undertow away
paradise.
No pick-me-ups
In copper-channels
That Ionized the pick-up-truck
With archaea iron
that ugly duck
Reminiscent of the man
In all but--
A castaway
Stowaway
The man who never hesitates
Bop upon the interstate
Lost within
concritical maze
Shoring up
Going home
Giving up
Turned to stone
Marble chin
Solumn grin
Chlidren sing
Seeking wings
How'd he know
Where to go
Will he see
What it means?
He's the guy
The one with the lollipop lap
Licking the syrup off the lip
Of a sweet polished sapphire
Gin
And the kids
My god
They think he
ODYSSEUS
And his dog not yet
Dead but depressive in the gloom
Howling into the midnight grass
And the creatures that stalk
With their ******* youth
Soon their weight will hit the deck
And like a noose,
Break the joints
The planks of which would stress
And bend his eyes upon his head.
God willing
Should he be exhumed
His energies excape to the river
And float,
Penultimate,
into the sea.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my *** to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
Evergreen and ivory
Turquoise tears bleed ebony
Fuchsia trees bear violet cherries
Blood oranges,
Mushroom clouds and ashberries.
These are the thoughts that grace my mind
As I turn to leave
Garden gnomes and rose scraped knees
Faster now
Faster than before
Kiss me golden,
Less, then more
And tell me who I am.
Coteries and clandestine deals
Soft-sweet midnight chamomile
And indigo aspirations
Somber February celebrations
Anniversaries white and red
Blue and green and white and red
And can you keep a secret?
Black-tea memories always slap me sleepless
And I have never known quite exactly how I feel.
Clementines suspended in yellow lamplight
Cross it out to scarlet rewrite.
Beige mountains and Alaskan hills
Crescent moon and sawdust mills
Silver smiles on a benign boat
Blessed if I'm an allusion to a footnote.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Loneliness!
Loneliness!
Creeps into full room unseen.
The fatherless child of loneliness.
Stood up in solitude.
Unnoticed in noisy melee.
Rips a soul to shreds.
A vicious circle.
A cycle of lies.
This near friendless soul.
A choice ingested.
Used to flying solo.
Habitual situation.
Being Alone.
Loneliness eats.
Delicious at times.
Most of the time.
Writing autobiography.
Just moments on a tapestry.
Love is still.
Still and silent.
Need love.
Just doesn’t fit.
Can’t do it.
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
Opulent at times.
Destitute at others.
Upward moving.
Stranded in whole self.
In a world full of nations.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
disappointment disappointment disappointment disappointment disappointment disappointment disappointment
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
Oh, both my shoes are shiny new,
And pristine is my hat;
My dress is 1922....
My life is all like that.
3.9k
Regardless of where my life is headed
No matter which wild path it is on
There are always voices that claw their way out
Sadness, Misery,Dripping desire, Torment, Gore...
Live inside of me
I have bubbles in my laughter
Sunshine sky ways in my smile
You'd never know from reading
That I could bake your pants off
Fix your camaro regardless it's issue
And clean your whole house all at the same time
Phone *** operator get you off with her voice kind of love
I make no apologies
Excuses don't dwell here
****** poet with a taste for flesh
An open book with banshee hair
The desire for more and more ink endless on my fingertips
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
Over the blank pages
She dotted down the words
She had not courage to speak
She drew her feelings
On the empty sheet of her notebook.
One day she ran out of pages
So she drew along her hands
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
The doodles of how it used to be
While the breeze gently touched her hair
The beat of a song flowing through her ears.
And then one day she ran out of hands.
So she wrote daily encouragements along her arms and legs
Her mama yelled and told her she was silly, she would get poisoned.
And she just kept writing.
Until one day she ran out of arms and legs.
So she started to doodle down her chest and on her face.
But then she realized she was doing it all wrong.
Scribble Scrabble Scratch.
She washed her hands, and her arms, and legs, and chest, and face.
She then picked up a phone and started calling various companies.
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
There she was, at her autobiography book signing.
She put down her pen she got from her father at the age of 4,
And held up the book that had her face plastered across it.
She smiled and held her book up I'm triumph.
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
I am standing in the cemetery at Byrds, Texas.
What did Judy say? "God-forsaken is beautiful, too."
A very old man who has cancer on his face and takes
care of the cemetery, is raking a grave in such a
manner as to almost (polish it like a piece of silver
3k
You there
Yes you
You sit there so quiet
Pretty blonde hair, green eyes
You play with dolls you don't notice peoples size
You see beauty and that's all
You there
Yes you
You sit there so quiet
Pretty dark blond hair, green eyes
You cry in front of the mirror because someone told you someone told you to hate your size
You see ugly and that's all
But wait
You there
Yes you
Pretty red hair, green eyes
You stay so quiet
You sit in the bathroom
You play with razors because someone told you someone told you to hate yourself
You see red and that's all
But wait
You there
Yes you pretty black hair, green eyes
You still sit in silence
You play in the bathroom
You won't keep anything down
They taught you to keep up the hate
Hate yourself
But wait
You there
Yes you
Faded blonde hair, dull green eyes
You will lay there screaming, **with no one hearing **
All you are is an empty shell
They taught you hate and **now it's too much **
You'll lay in the hospital
But It’s still to much
But wait
You there
Yes you
Hair freshly dyed blonde
Eyes shut so tight
Ribbons over freshly cut wrists
Best dress on, white stained with red at the hips
You lay so quiet
Whispering your final goodnight
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
I fell in love like the way you fall asleep: like getting hit by a ******* bus that knocks you out of your senses and In that moment I swear we were infinitely in love but ********* you left me on my own. I know love and lust don't always keep the same company but I find great companionship in your eyes and I'm quite hoping you'll stick around. May the odds be ever in our favor of falling in love again in the empty house we once called mine where i'm divergent and I can only be controlled by my fears (of losing you) that send me recoiling in your arms every night; I solemnly swear that I am up to no good and I spend every second wishing you'd love me like I love you.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Delay, well, travellers must expect
Delay. For how long? No one seems to know.
With all the luggage weighed, the tickets checked,
It can't be long… We amble too and fro,
Sit in steel chairs, buy cigarettes and sweets
And tea, unfold the papers. Ought we to smile,
Perhaps make friends? No: in the race for seats
You're best alone. Friendship is not worth while.
Six hours pass: if I'd gone by boat last night
I'd be there now. Well, it's too late for that.
The kiosk girl is yawning. I fell stale,
Stupified, by inaction - and, as light
Begins to ebb outside, by fear, I set
So much on this Assumption. Now it's failed
2.5k
life takes many forms
many shapes and sizes
choose the one fits you the best
make this judgement not in haste
whether in slums
or in palace
whether in BMW
or in auto
whether your clothes are branded
or not
matters a trifle.
if you born poor
not your mistake
if you die poor,
certainly
your mistake.
life has twists and turns
nothing back returns
thus prison your precious life
in an autobiography.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
You're pretty for a dark-skinned chick
You'd be prettier if you were a light-skinned *****
Weezy F baby, said it himself
"beautiful black woman, but i bet she look better red"
He will never know the thoughts that went through the black woman's head
I don't want to be dark-skinned
I don't want to be light-skinned
I don't want to be brown skinned
I wanna be the RIGHT skin,
that white skin,
that PRIVILEGED skin
Now i don't mean that to be racist
it's not that i'm screaming BLACK POWER.
I just want to place,
even if it means being last in the entire human race.
did i mention i'm NOT screaming BLACK POWER?
I just don't want to see my brothers and sisters life span's equivalent to that of an hour.
an hour glass, sitting on the table
waiting for it's time to budge
Like an innocent young girl in a classroom last month
waiting to be drug
You say you'd rather be anything than a dark skinned chick,
Well ,here is a autobiography of an angry,
melanin filled,
*****
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 3:10 AM UTC
Distraught,
Destroyed,
Dis,
embodied.
My halls,
The walls,
my wicked falls turn'd from stone,
dissolved to nary a diffid tone thrown by ******* bones.
An amorphous form born from the aimless mourning that now has no space to face and call my own.
Telltale swarms of which I myself did warn would come,
Once and again I crumble from what once which I would succumb.
Myself. Dear. Gone.
I am,
afloat in limbo forever struck with what,
I Left only to silence my mind until once again,
I would find the cut.
...
Page 2
My totality revised,
Scratched through like the words unworthy.
Smoothed over the rough draft,
Autobiography progressive,
Nary writing another day's pages.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 4:31 PM UTC
Fingernails cry against my skin
and pinch
and pull
and drag
a desperate attempt at some kind of self induced rescue
and a melodramatic autobiography
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I am the ******* son of Nero,
the sad product of licentiousness.
A fact about my life
that I should really mention less.
My mother was a famous Queen
or so it is that I am told.
Unable to acknowledge me,
to the slavers I was sold.
But pirates attacked our galley
a few miles out to sea.
Bold, daring, fearsome men,
their life appealed to me.
Plundering, fighting on a ship,
I loved the pirates life.
Until one day I floundered
and took me a beautiful wife.
She bore me two boys and a girl,
I gave them all my affection.
Mourning the loss of my childhood,
my severed parental connection.
The children grew and flew the nest,
so leaving just two alone.
Then the plague paid a visit,
my grief weighs heavy for my home.
So now I am just a humble poet,
Withdrawn and cold, but serene.
Throwing words at a paper audience,
waiting patient for the final scene.
Well, wait there a while longer,
this ******* is not quite done.
I am not so ready to die just now,
that epilogue is yet to come.
© Pagan Paul (19/04/17)
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
I am a certified expert in the sequential pushing of buttons,
this pushing performed, on a good day, in concert with the
expensively purchased, somewhat rare mental model of
the workings of a recently commonplace variety of machine
dependent at its core on the minuscule presence of increasingly-rare
earth metals allowing for the conditional flow of groups of electrons.
These machines, like their precursors, are further dependent on
the supply of slightly less increasingly rare combustible material
for which armed conflicts are routinely fought and many have died.
My interest in the machines began at an early age,
enticed by the illusion of control, and on the whole,
I think, motivated by the idea that these machines
processing information, the core mechanism of reality,
might be used to create understanding.
In the interceding years, it is increasingly apparent to me
that while some are used for this purpose, most,
like most things around me, are controlled and engaged by
multi-personed organisms concerned primarily with:
1) self-preservation AND
2) the collection of, and limited divestment of,
unit notions of rarefied value, insured by the
existence of another similar organism valued for its
1) self- and nearby-environs preservation AND
2) recent track record of insuring continued relatively easy access
to the aforementioned important combustible materials.
—it is generally considered to people's credit that this notion
of value is thus-derived and no longer as frequently derived by virtue
of possessing a metal which, while of certain non-combustible use,
is basically just pretty rare and really, really shiny.
I find myself again shortly in a need of convincing such an organism
that my button pushing is of sufficient quality,
on sufficiently frequent good days,
that it should consider me a temporary part thereof and divest,
of itself to me, sufficient units of value that I might happily
continue to push buttons on its behalf in the pursuit of further units.
I am, for some reason, somewhat less than thrilled with this prospect
finding it, despite its marketability, a maybe less than important enterprise.
I am existentially concerned by the idea that my whole value may derive
from my button pushing, and is thus further dependent on
the availability of rare-earth metal and also-rare combustibles.
In some delusion of importance amongst 7 billion plus similar primates
and a unfathomably vast universe,
I thought you might be interested to know
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Travel he must
And travel he will
But never without the public expectation
That he was there to ****
He took to the sky
With his dulled chocolate skin
Ah, the perfect scapegoat
The man in the turban
Typical and expected,
There is a bomb on this flight.
But not so expected, yet so typical,
The man who placed it here is white
With guilt and regret,
He watches the passengers go up in flames
Though he is glad that his country
will be given a different person to blame
*A terrorist
When will they leave us alone?*
I'm just curious
Does anyone even remember what country we've been told they're from?
That brown man did not bomb that plane
He did not come here with intentions to destroy
He is not the monster you are, and on this man your corruption is displayed.
Age twenty, to be exact. He was only just a ******* boy.
And you killed him, along with 149 others.
You then proceeded to tell more than 315 million people that it was a suicide bomb, a terrorist attack, all credits given to the Israeli.
Ha.
If you wanted to talk about a terrorist, you should've written an autobiography.
Nationalism
Nationalism
Nationalism
It is a nail that has been so drilled into your very being, it has ripped through the other side.
You are a robot, a political Frankenstein. None of these parts are yours, each brain cell has been donated by a false newscast or presidential speech.
"A foreign terrorist" - wait.
Perhaps the "foreign" isn't needed. Every mere speck of dust from the Eastern part of the world is considered a terrorist.
In fact, is anywhere even really part of the world if it is not in America?
Anyway,
"A terrorist has bombed our plane,"
they tell you.
Racial slurs are heard in every living room, coffee shop, and office.
Thank you for giving us another reason to hate any country besides our own.
Thank you for killing their families, and letting his family grieve not only for his death but also for the fact that the world hates the man he was not, for a lifestyle he did not live.
Do you love our country now?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
Eccentric, tea-drinking Whovian, bibliophile, lover of puns.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
so many words and still
the essence is trapped
in the discreet quanta
in this autobiography
of milk in my tears
no wars to fight
nothing to prove
the ancient love will find me,
the unknown you
the right verbs
the earth of home
the cycle of life
in my dreams
the round present immerses me
in gratitude for all my selves,
the depth of coherence
the bottom of the sky
in this simple truth,
my heart is my home
Mar 27, 2023
Mar 27, 2023 at 5:23 AM UTC
The air is as thick as the curls of your hair
The drink is as stale as the mid-winter air
The mistress and the man ascend up the stairs
The rest of them, so lifeless, so full of despair
Cluttered inside the corners of your mind
Trails of your self-medication are all you could find
Alcohol poisoning the natural opiates left behind
The rest of it, so scarce, so blurred, so blind
You tap your fingers to the tune of the song
You lift your drink up and back down where it belongs
Not another sip, the inevitable you mustn't prolong
Drinking away your problems only works for so long
Another sad stare from the bartender that tends to wink
Another empty glass to clatter on the table when you finally drink
Six more years of crawling into debt with the inability to think
Drowsy eyes, bloodshot, still dry when you blink
Stagnant dreams rest under your pillow at night
While dizzy spells depress your enthusiasm as it ignites
The life you live is a life lived in spite
Regrets hanging on the curtain of your shower, revenge leaking from every reaction site
Three more weeks and it'll be over soon enough
Take the pills with a glass of whiskey and call your own bluff
You'll rest beside him and all of his stuff
Douse it in alcohol, light a match, you are tough
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC