"awfulness" poems
And that’s the thing with sensitive people.
They notice the world how it’s meant to be,
not how everyone think it is.
The world is beautiful.
It’s good.
Just like people.
Every single one of us.
They’re the one’s with the big hearts.
Who constantly live wiping their tears away
caused by all the sensations that overwhelm them
even in simple occasions.
Yea that’s the thing with sensitive people.
They feel what others pretend isn’t there.
They see the true beauty behind all this ugliness.
And the true pain that people attempt to hide
behind their awfulness.
They get every inch of true emotion
that lies beneath all their shattered pieces.
They comprehend the world in a way
others could never ever picture.
So breathtakingly beautiful
and sorry together.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
Some nights,
I dream of my father's fists,
or the blue-green color of his eyes
and how they watered,
became oceans,
when he'd had too much to drink.
There was a galaxy inside of him,
a great, gravitational mass.
He opened his mouth and swallowed worlds;
became a death-eater,
teeth biting down into a swollen black tongue.
When I was a fetus, I felt him pulling,
so I gnawed my way out of my mother's womb.
Covered in her blood, I met my adversary.
I dove into the sea to stare him down,
but could scarcely remember my amniotic swimming.
I drowned. My lungs filled
with the emptiness of space,
and for ages I floated, unmoored,
drifting by stars forever unimpressed with me.
One day, the universe will collapse,
time flying backwards toward its end.
I will see him as he was when he was new,
a stardust embryo not touched by awfulness.
I will know what it means to love.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
There are
just
some days
you
cannot
write.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
I paint my windows black
so I can't see the sun
I have no feelings now
since you said that we are done
I run through the hours
searching for our abandoned days
These feelings inside
are simply driving me crazy
I paint my front door black
so everyone can see
You meant more than life
to the sane man inside me
Now I hide inside
the darkness of my room
I cannot stand this awfulness
of the encroaching doom
I paint my windows black
so you can surely see
There is no reason now
for plans of eternity
You crushed a heart
that was infinitely so kind
I don't know
I simple lost my mind
I paint my soul in black
as it is no use now to me
I sweep out the past
so useless can't you see
Everyday is Hell in here
I can't take a second more
Paint it black now
as you walk out the door .
I paint my love in black
it's no use now to me
There is no use
in pretending tomorrow will ever be
I cut the rope
You can hear the fall
The story's over now
it was time for my last call .
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
I saw three men on the roof today
and there was another,
with a big beard and a bigger smile,
that oversaw a jerry-rigged machine
making terrible noises
hooked to a white pick-up
that fumed with dark smoke
and smelled of awfulness
they each seemed willing to do what
they must, and happy to do it in fact
three men on a roof
one on the ground
working on this gray
and dreary day
the future seemed simple then
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
It’s boxing day (the Brit name for the day after Christmas) and Pamela, Lisa’s grandmother is visiting our little pandemic ark. Pamela’s a Cowboys fan so we’re watching them slaughter Washington - between commercials - but now a Tesla commercial is running. “Those electric cars,” Pamala says dubiously, “seem problematic.”
“You’ve heard of global warming, haven’t you, Pamala?” Leeza says. Leeza addresses everyone (even her grandmother) as if they were her age (12). It’s both seductive and lazy. “This whole system,” she raises her arms to include the apartment, the city and America, “will collapse - we’re DOOOOMED,” she concludes, as if speechifying to an eager crowd.
“Everyone’s heard of climate change,” Pamela says, sipping her eggnog. Pamela is as well informed as any of us and seems rather envious of the future, even the coming awfulness.
“Leeza’s her own theatre,” Her mom says, grimacing indulgently.
Leeza’s full attention was now on the pastry tray - having spotted two small eclairs under the bear claws - she'd lost interest in the conversation and saving the planet.
“The system won’t collapse,” Will says. Will received his early acceptance letter from Harvard the other day and now he knows everything. “We’ll lose Florida, South Carolina and New York,” he pronounces calmly, “so there’ll be some.. migrations.”
“Thank you, professor,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes as if to say ”Harvard people.”
“I think the Covid might get us all - before climate change,” I say, in the spirit of the holiday.
“Well,” Will says, grinning, “that’s what ALL the people at inferior colleges think.”
Leeza, passing by my easychair, curls into my lap like a cat, gently petting my hair. “Don’t be mean to MY friend,” she says, purringly - I was suddenly her possession. Lisa comes out of her chair, a sly smile on her face, to lay crosswise atop Leeza (and me).
“Ugg,” I managed to say, squirming to get comfortable, then “Akkkk.”
Lisa says, “Leave my poor roomie alone!” and starts baby-kissing my head.”
Will starts in our direction like HE’S going to pile on. “Egggg! I shrek, “HELP!”
Pamela whoops with glee as Dallas scores another touchdown.
“Like beating a dead dog with a stick,” she says.
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 10:10 AM UTC
I do not know at all
what does it mean to know
I do not know what I mean
I do not know what it means to lie
and give truth and truth
which does not exist at all
and there was never in the world
I do not know what it means to be
to be or not to be but possible
be smart or stupid
that's just how the question stands
that's just how you can be
great if we are already at the same time
greatness and awfulness
inferior worth
I do not know I do not know at all
what does it mean to know and be
I do not know what it's like to be
and I do not know what is nothingness
what is happiness and what is
misfortune in this world
and even light for me is emptiness
remains empty until the end of life
25.07.18
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
It seems as if the volume (events, objects, actions) of this container (life) continues to expand (time) while the amount of it's contents (meaning) remains fixed - so like a gas it spreads itself to fill the empty areas of that expansive expanding sphere. When once the container was small (childhood) and the thick smog (meaning) hung heavy amongst and within (events, objects, actions) and perforated and perfumed everything with it's grace and energy; now the vapor is spread thinly, diffused between draping canopies of void.
But for short instances, in a frenzied expansion (something new), this gaseous cloud will rush and clump (a loss of reason), ****** as by a vacuum to fill that new-found cavern (my only muse). Here in these moments of freshness (passion consume me) comes energy and heat as molecule duels molecule - how they fight and tangle their tendrils! jostle for space! collide and separate! bind, release!
Then woe and oh (contemptful contentedness)! The awfulness of entropy (a sudden stop). The waves subside and the sea stills. A lake in stagnation - and was it ever a churning roaring ocean (feeling)?
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
You all do realize I hope that
Republicans McConnell, Rubio,
Chaffetz, Hatch, & Paul Ryan
all forcefully denied Obama's
2013 request to Congress for
authorization to strike in Syria
after Assad's use of chemical
weapons in the city of Ghouta,
they all answered an emphatic
No! ...
with various shades of political
double-talk, America First, &
"oh look where it might lead"
pontificating & conservative
posturing,
but now! ...
oh now when Trump launches
a missile strike they're all praise
and "God Bless America" &
proud, & pumped & feeling
like real Americans again,
oh good god the hypocrisy,
the shallow interest driven
ethics, the lies, the brazen
pretence & self-serving
awfulness of these cold
calculating humans of
ours.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
I got the flu in mid January and it's nearly Spring and still I cough
but I decided to force myself to go out
and get on Bart and go to Berkeley
and I saw things
stared at an ad for "American Idol" on the platform
for an unseemly amount of time trying to figure out which
human representation had been more photo-shopped
Fascinated, coming out into another land other than work home bed
Standing on the Bart platform, with no evil smells like the New York City subway and a breeze
and a polite voice telling me when the train would come
And at the next station an ad for the Jewish Museum and a young Ethiopian Jewish man
has an exhibit there and I felt good, that yes, there is such awfulness in Israel
but even there, like here, some can rise
And then Berkeley and my favorite cafe,
and it so reminds me of Columbia University, only cleaner
but it doesn't hurt about my X anymore
but it reminded me of my cat who was dieing in July and
he didn't want me near him too much because
dieing things like small spaces and not too much attention
so I left him in the closet curled up as cancer worked it's inevitable devastation
And I was coughing and tired, an invalid at the end of the day
but I made it to the Shattuck Cinemas to watch "Lincoln" and they have
a bar, and couches in the theater and you can take drink in if you're over 21
and that was our idea, in my days as a theater manager, we'd
talk about ways to bring more people in and we suggested couches and alcohol
and our manager laughed and thought we were crazy
but here is crazy and people walk in and love it
I sat in the back and took up a whole two seat couch selfishly and
listened to people come in and say how nice it was
Today I was an invalid again and could hardly get up
but the memory, it was worth it
I am slightly more alive again
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches
on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?”
you say between impossibly tiny sips
of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea—
or at least I think that’s what you said;
I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which
your incomprehensibly long nose hairs
mingled with your bristly auburn mustache
as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole)
to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness.
But I reply:
“Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway?
Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff?
Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!”
Heh.
But my dialectical cynicism is no match
for your allegorical bullshit-ism:
“Ah, but we create meaning!
The lonely abyss of individual experience,
when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore—
Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!”
I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo.
When my eyes return to the table,
I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon.
I painted a Pollock-esque piece in 9th grade.
My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses,
the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them
while she said something about the creative subconscious.
The first drip took some self-convincing;
the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me
with the possibility of mistake.
At first I pretended I was ******* himself,
trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought.
It didn’t work.
My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did.
I began with green for no reason at all,
and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed
but that I couldn’t explain.
Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me.
“Would you like a sip?”
I can’t avoid a smile because
****
this tea does taste like sunshine.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
..and it hurts
when the blades flash
and blood spurts.
See the face
watch the glass
then smash the mirror
watch as cracking up you'll pass
into the seething red hot boiling mass of indecisions.
Incising with precision and then it's too late
any hate you ever had against yourself
your mum or dad is dripping then it's gone.
Who said life goes on?
it does maybe
you cannot,did not,would not see
the sympathy that wrote itself upon the stone
when laid at rest
three miles from home
in St. Marys churchyard and you thought life was so hard
it's harder now
but not for you.you flew away
leaving family to pray and cry.
...and the awfulness of wondering why or what they said
that brought you to this
dead end
full stop
final resting place.
But you know different,don't you dear?
there's no resting place for you in here.
Like there,
you're just a square peg in a rounded hole
another lost and weary soul.
..and you're not going anyway to anywhere
no floating through the air like you read in some ghostly story book
no angels come to tuck you in
you're on your own again
but this times it's for keeps.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
Giving you up,
You belong to the world -
not with me.
the world keeps turning;
with each turn,
I
in turn
turn away from you
and your awfulness
your ways
your rejection of me.
you enjoyed stumbling
recklessly falling and breaking;
whatever remained of my love
- my awful, broken love.
with each sunset -
I see you - setting with it
being the darkness that is my discomfort
the pain that lingers on
eating bits of me.
you are clumsy -
a person of the world
- I
well, I
- a person of the boundaries
of the tortured soul
that clings on the sanity
that is, love
the world has you -
I have nothing - nothing
that is you.
- nothing of you;
******
The world has you - not I.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
The inconsistency.
It pushes you away
And ***** you right back
The inconsistency is a being
It’s alive as it pulses you closer
Then farther away
And even closer the next.
Intoxicating.
You forget what normalcy and relevance are
You forget the good and begin to hate
The fiery negativity floods your veins
Your thoughts, your emotions, your intentions
Until that hatred is turned on yourself
Deep corners of your soul are tainted
Gasping for air as the being consumes you,
You see the light for a moment
And all that is shown is the good
Beautiful, joyous moments are breathing
Laughing, loving, pulsating again
You relax
and remember what it’s like to love
To be loved.
The fear, the hatred, the awfulness disappears.
You breath
and life comes back.
Momentarily, your tattered soul lightens
The inconsistency is addicting.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
The figure, old and decrepit,
lies in a silent tomb of regret,
he ponders his life and where
it has betray him with longing stare,
he slowly rocks to-and-fro
and yet he longs for one love so,
that he cries himself to sleep at night,
seeking some sort of holy plight
to fill his violent life with but one light.
-
he wishes for dreams sweet,
but his requests betray him,
he remembers bloodstained sand at his feet,
and the point at which men’s screams sustained him.
He remembers a thirst for death,
an unquenchable bloodlust.
-
He remembers bodies
covered in entrails and dust,
He sits and thinks though,
of only one retained image,
the figure of a child,
it was a haunting vision.
-
a stray round caught a woman’s throat,
her child covered in the blood that spared her coat,
He remembered this child,
that had watched his mother die,
a boy no more than fifteen,
didn’t so much as flinch or cry.
-
But what held him still,
because death was dealt before,
was the look in the boy’s eyes.
-
This look was hatred for everything that lived
because this woman had not,
this was his terrible decision,
causing awfulness and derision.
-
Within all men with emotion,
when anger’s strength is that of the oceans,
this warrior to-be, a devil’s scorn,
now has nothing, baptized in blood,
the man remembers his son, his brood,
as he was warborn.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
i love you and that is the yes weight
and the high noon trauma.
the unborn cathedral
of tiny smart people
and the near dark
nova.
the grove of our open wound sustains
and the very love of our bleached dream
.... a godless cream
in a crimson
church.
our idols, a dim mirth. and nothing as it seems.
But -
Oh how the awfulness trumps the blue
and the black behind it
shines ! what might we, the feeble guttersnipes do ?
but save a prayer to a dead god
and march to wane fields
behind it...
love-blinded ?
what are your terms ? the Devil may ask of you and you and you ...
but the true quest is a riddlement,
a prune on the throat of a mute Sun
singing the bleak queries
of an afterbirth, after thought
has abandoned
a hazard's guess.
Tomorrow is a crumb of soft words
and a walk of the plank.
The high stench of probable cause
and the noisy stench
of a chaste complaint.
a dreary ruby
groomed in the *****
of the earth
to be the first
fool.
and the last lust.
a complete waste of light
where the darkness falls
like an anvil chanting
a hammer's
song
but tone deaf
and sparks
sadly.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
To you,
the past
defined me.
The way I spoke
offended you.
If there was such
a light as you
described then
why did you attempt
to change me?
Change my entirety,
change who I am.
Perhaps it was the
way I whispered
my anxiety and doubts
that scared you,
or perhaps it was
just your own.
I know now that
you cage me still
under your daggers
and soft feathers
I use my light
to carry on with
my life,
now ridden of
your awfulness.
But you continue to
push me down,
even from afar.
Oh so cruel.
It is not I
who needs to
change,
it's you.
- SkullsNBones
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
My thoughts are like a river
Flowing through what used to be my soul.
My thoughts drown rational feeling
Or any decent emotion.
My thoughts war goodbye to the beach as they drag my good mood into the cold, dark depths of them.
My thoughts cause the same amout of trauma as a near-drowning.
My thoughts are sometimes still and transparent
Showcasing the horrors they hide
My thoughts at other times dark and murky
Ugly and sinister
Concealing the awfulness beneath its surface
Waiting to surprise you
My thoughts look inviting at times
Refreshing
But My Thoughts are a dangerous weapon to the unsuspecting
And the most common one can **** me as easily as drowning in my swimming pool.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Home ( less)
is where the start is,
when you become a magnet
for misfortune and a scapegoat
for those who would look down on
you,
those who'd pass you by without
a second glance
by some grace be it God's or some other
deities there are places
where though ill
at ease you can find a moment to forget the
trials, the tribulation, the awfulness of your current
situation.
The universe spins on a pin and things change,
you might begin to see the light
I said, might, it's difficult to alter one's perception
when the view you have is limited, but hope, that
which springs eternal is something you should never
lose,
Living proof,
A roof over my head
alive
not dead
working
loved
happy,
it takes time and sometimes a long time
and the magnet you became seems to
get stronger the longer you're down on your
uppers.
But you must engage even when disengagement
seems preferable or inevitable,
there is nothing more frightening or terrible than to
be totally alone.
It's not easy, but to be honest nothing is easy that's
worth anything and your worth is inestimable,
your resources are legend
you just need to tap in to them.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 4:30 AM UTC
rules for wars
and other fictions
and the grave digger
gives me a nod
hands me a shovel of thunder
what to tell the children?
shadows can't exist
without light
and on my bended knees
lightning in the air
looking up
what to tell
the little boys and girls?
be amused,
smile,
darlings, it's not odd, not at all
we humans shed our skin like snakes
and one man's freedom fighter
is another man's terrorist
hell broke loose in Palestine
hell broke loose in the Ukraine
the angels' weeping choir
and cat eyes turn grey as the sea
the cat stares into the fire
cold as the sea
child, have you seen some
awfulness?
what could it be?
my cat howls into the fire
what to say to the children?
(welcome to the night)
pawns and kings, the rooks
the bittersweet comedy
of the heart and other losers
what to tell the children?
May 15, 2024
May 15, 2024 at 8:42 PM UTC
I did nothing today as pertains
academia. I AM a mess of a
man. a mess of a manly manly
man. not that I need to be a manly
manly man, but I would like to be
at least moderately successful in my
ventures (I have too many dreams to
hold silent in a space as small as this
skull of mine). Dance with me in this
awfulness, like a she-wolf lone in the
wilderness with nothing but a collar
to tell it that it was once a dog. Tell me
your wrongs and I'll tell you mine.
Together, we'll make it
"right."
Together, as I said, we will make it
write.
Lost in an unmapped maze, we are
forced to draw our own from the
narrow chinks in our particular
caverns. Unique in amazement
and pain. Unique in the colors
our blood takes when converted
to paint. Unique in the ways we
slowly **** ourselves. Unique in
the ways we slowly work to build
life's very meaning from nothing
but a blank canvas always declaring
that "tomorrow never comes."
But I think you understand
as well as I do:
this was the point all along.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
Being alone with myself is tricky because my mind constantly looks for trouble, a something waiting around the next corner, a shameful memory goblin ready to pounce and at times my scrutiny is so intense I'm practically blinded, set out on a wobbly tightrope, with no safety net while below a granite slab awaits.
And I wonder is anyone else out there familiar with this cold, damp, mind tunnel or is it only a certain few of us who sense some stuff is best keep hidden away, an ancient wrong, an awfulness never to be faced and freed from the darkness, a nowhere place where very few actually survive.
This remote black hole of my unholy secrets live, thrive, out of sight, out of mind, certainly God knows my cloak and dagger self yet God never interferes or removes the sticky fear I've created to block all forward progress, at least not until I'm willing to turn my willfulness over, release my need to be in control, my strong addiction to keep myself safe from life.
So here I sit, tired as hell, afraid of life, no sense of direction, just an ingrained habit to get busy, distracted, while inside a burning desire awaits, longs to live life, to face and be rid of fear, to trust an unknowable Source continues to wait patiently, to make all things new, the very moment I trust the Light at the end of the tunnel.
~ pe kaplan
Aug 5, 2021
Aug 5, 2021 at 11:45 AM UTC
Life is a tyrant with an army of darkness
That wields weapons of pure awfulness,
While I am a fool that stands against it alone,
And all I can feel is fear in my bones.
Depression, Anxiety, Loneliness, and more
Stand together in that mighty large army.
But Life has a far more effective weapon to use on me,
Hope! It’s a well placed trap that keeps me from being free.
Hope is a promise of an end to the loneliness,
But in truth it is secretly an empty abyss.
And it will make me defenseless and easy to slay
With all of the destruction that life will send my way.
I will be struck first with anxiety
Which will lead me to stay away from society.
Depression will be the next to attack,
And it will leave me far behind with no chance of a comeback.
Finally loneliness will strike a near fatal blow,
Making me feel like I’ve reached an all time low.
Hope will still be there to deal the final strike,
Stabbing me in the back with a large metal spike.
I will still be alive but only because they want it so,
So I can feel all of the pain they inflicted and know
That they will leave but soon they'll return,
Because there will be much more of me to burn.
Bystanders will walk by and offer words of encouragement
But they will keep their distance and pretend that I am nonexistent.
Because no one wants to take time to assist a fool,
Thus leaving me thinking that people are cruel.
Before the battle I helped many individuals heal,
From their fights with their own demons and things that were too real.
Now it is my turn to call for their aid,
But alas no one wants to help remove the blade.
So I lie there, with a sword in my back,
Pinning my to the ground making a crack.
I feel the blood drain from my the wound,
Leaking the pieces of my heart which makes me feel doomed.
But I will take advantage of this,
And become a man that is emotionless.
I will remove this blade and stand tall,
Letting life know that never again will I fall.
It can send all its weapons against me,
But I will be strong like an oak tree.
Hope will no longer make me feel weak,
Because I am now an hopeless freak.
So once more, against life I will stand alone,
But this time there is nothing in my heart but stone.
And all of those who had ignored me will be sorry,
At the sight of me, a powerful one man army.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 8:58 PM UTC
Yes, Eric Alterman.
Apr 21, 2023
Apr 21, 2023 at 3:51 PM UTC