"backstories" poems - Hello Poetry

The curse of a great, well-known or (at least) culturally interesting family. Heralded at birth to mimic similar (or even, surpassing) social feats of achievement/wealth/renown. Instead manages to underpasses even mundane non-impressivenesses of second-generation parentals. I See them, smirk or folly with time, silently. ....which they seem to quite often. Biding weekend with multitudes of varying categories of "friends" and sweethearts who never seem to stick around too long All aware, of course, of the famous family lineage Themselves, instead after lifetimes where first words, senior infants homework, cheerful accusations of mischief and certificates of age-appropriate health were lauded as signifiers of a future onslaught of fulfilled capabilities emerge as providence's lackeys– and meekly, to be Written out of History One by One by One. II Talent is frequently a despairing life-cycle for people who witness and go without. III But what price success? Is it to be counted in public or left behind in wreaths? Stern evidence of favour, fought for and won or shaky good fortune One life's profitable fluke IV Does the cost of success itself admit backstories of other kinds of loss that children without the chance of ever knowing or changing their inheritances of fate are powerless to cease the flow of their own anonymity all for the insistences of the unarguable and for merely treading the average?

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Aug 8, 2013

Aug 8, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC

westley-barnes

Significantly Untalented Grandchild

The curse of a great, well-known or (at least) culturally interesting family. Heralded at birth to mimic similar (or even, surpassing) social feats of achievement/wealth/renown. Instead manages to underpasses even mundane non-impressivenesses of second-generation parentals. I See them, smirk or folly with time, silently. ....which they seem to quite often. Biding weekend with multitudes of varying categories of "friends" and sweethearts who never seem to stick around too long All aware, of course, of the famous family lineage Themselves, instead after lifetimes where first words, senior infants homework, cheerful accusations of mischief and certificates of age-appropriate health were lauded as signifiers of a future onslaught of fulfilled capabilities emerge as providence's lackeys– and meekly, to be Written out of History One by One by One. II Talent is frequently a despairing life-cycle for people who witness and go without. III But what price success? Is it to be counted in public or left behind in wreaths? Stern evidence of favour, fought for and won or shaky good fortune One life's profitable fluke IV Does the cost of success itself admit backstories of other kinds of loss that children without the chance of ever knowing or changing their inheritances of fate are powerless to cease the flow of their own anonymity all for the insistences of the unarguable and for merely treading the average?

38

Two world travelers, one small town Unfinished people, unfinished house More thoughts in my head than I should probably say out loud Sitting there at your kitchen table Writing backstories for all your neighbors Talking about the things that we want to be famous for Funny how I barely know ya Sitting there in your Patagonia Envisioning a world with the both of us

0

Nov 15, 2020

Nov 15, 2020 at 4:46 PM UTC

colettealexia

Unfinished

Two world travelers, one small town Unfinished people, unfinished house More thoughts in my head than I should probably say out loud Sitting there at your kitchen table Writing backstories for all your neighbors Talking about the things that we want to be famous for Funny how I barely know ya Sitting there in your Patagonia Envisioning a world with the both of us

9

I am my parents’ worst nightmare and a blessing in disguise. My father says I am exercise for his mind. I love verbal defense. I love creating backstories and plucking reasoning out of thin air like a magician who pulls rabbits out of his hat. Verbal defense is an art, you see. It consists of passionate testimonials, backed by evidence, and so many ******* loopholes. I have mastered this art down to a T. I ask that you imagine me complexly. I hate that you think you know me based off of a few things you’ve seen. No two people ever view the same thing. I believe you don’t know me. You can pinpoint a couple of my likes, my dislikes, but you don’t know the songs I sing when I’m alone. They’re not all sad, you know. But sometimes they are. You don’t know why or what or how. You don’t know that my favorite things are too far away from my grasp and they’re always so ******* hard to find yet I keep looking. Imagine me complexly and maybe you’ll see something new. I know what it’s like to look at the world through scratched lenses. I know that after a while, you get a headache from trying to overcorrect what you’re seeing. So take the ******* scratched rose tinted glasses off. **** will be blurry but at least it’ll be as raw as you can stand, take a look, see here this is my being. People used to tell me I should be a lawyer but that would take the joy out of arguing. Me? I want to fix broken things. I’m attracted to brokenness like a moth is to the buzz of a dying fluorescent streetlight. Isn’t that funny? I find it hilarious, that I think I can fix, heal and soothe the wounds of a broken world. I must be truly crazy if I think I can patch up some of the world’s lacerations. Maybe one day, when you imagine me complexly, we can talk about it. I’ll try my damnedest to not to try and fix you, because I’d be a flaming liar if I didn’t think you weren’t broken. So imagine me complexly. I'll wait, don't worry. Take all the time you need. Imagine me complexly. Imagine me complexly. -z.z

0

Dec 12, 2016

Dec 12, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC

raingirlpoet

imagine me complexly

I am my parents’ worst nightmare and a blessing in disguise. My father says I am exercise for his mind. I love verbal defense. I love creating backstories and plucking reasoning out of thin air like a magician who pulls rabbits out of his hat. Verbal defense is an art, you see. It consists of passionate testimonials, backed by evidence, and so many ******* loopholes. I have mastered this art down to a T. I ask that you imagine me complexly. I hate that you think you know me based off of a few things you’ve seen. No two people ever view the same thing. I believe you don’t know me. You can pinpoint a couple of my likes, my dislikes, but you don’t know the songs I sing when I’m alone. They’re not all sad, you know. But sometimes they are. You don’t know why or what or how. You don’t know that my favorite things are too far away from my grasp and they’re always so ******* hard to find yet I keep looking. Imagine me complexly and maybe you’ll see something new. I know what it’s like to look at the world through scratched lenses. I know that after a while, you get a headache from trying to overcorrect what you’re seeing. So take the ******* scratched rose tinted glasses off. **** will be blurry but at least it’ll be as raw as you can stand, take a look, see here this is my being. People used to tell me I should be a lawyer but that would take the joy out of arguing. Me? I want to fix broken things. I’m attracted to brokenness like a moth is to the buzz of a dying fluorescent streetlight. Isn’t that funny? I find it hilarious, that I think I can fix, heal and soothe the wounds of a broken world. I must be truly crazy if I think I can patch up some of the world’s lacerations. Maybe one day, when you imagine me complexly, we can talk about it. I’ll try my damnedest to not to try and fix you, because I’d be a flaming liar if I didn’t think you weren’t broken. So imagine me complexly. I'll wait, don't worry. Take all the time you need. Imagine me complexly. Imagine me complexly. -z.z

6

We shared backstories, dreams and before long You've shared your soul and favorite songs Our fingers intertwined with sounds Flashbacks with music all around Listening now leaves a taste of marvel and panic Leaving me mortified yet ecstatic Sad songs declare how happy we once were Happy songs serenade that I'll be happy once more Only this time with your absence Hoping to be unreminded of your presence Dear stranger with overwhelming memories How can untainted songs, untouched melodies Newfound hymns and all the same Still carry your scent and whisper your name

0

Sep 25, 2018

Sep 25, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC

Stitch

Playlist

We shared backstories, dreams and before long You've shared your soul and favorite songs Our fingers intertwined with sounds Flashbacks with music all around Listening now leaves a taste of marvel and panic Leaving me mortified yet ecstatic Sad songs declare how happy we once were Happy songs serenade that I'll be happy once more Only this time with your absence Hoping to be unreminded of your presence Dear stranger with overwhelming memories How can untainted songs, untouched melodies Newfound hymns and all the same Still carry your scent and whisper your name

14

teeth and scissors slicing and grinding--designing downfalls of detritus deemed gross by us stamped and sealed in blood the typical shumck undone beatin' a beat on bones breakin' skulls and **** bemoan piteous tales of sorrow wish it was different--don't it's not and it's nevermore backroad backstories backtrack to simple dreams crushed inevitably by me by you by this boulder in cosmic volumes of nothing __n o t h i n g__ so beat or be beat break so you don't breakdown on the downbeat beatdown downtown the show of the modern world with smog and **** background ground down into our raw, exposed blend of horrible It's (nothing) ✖ personal.

0

Jun 17, 2018

Jun 17, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC

nihiliti

eye of a razor

teeth and scissors slicing and grinding--designing downfalls of detritus deemed gross by us stamped and sealed in blood the typical shumck undone beatin' a beat on bones breakin' skulls and **** bemoan piteous tales of sorrow wish it was different--don't it's not and it's nevermore backroad backstories backtrack to simple dreams crushed inevitably by me by you by this boulder in cosmic volumes of nothing __n o t h i n g__ so beat or be beat break so you don't breakdown on the downbeat beatdown downtown the show of the modern world with smog and **** background ground down into our raw, exposed blend of horrible It's (nothing) ✖ personal.

33

She’s beautiful Hold her through right and wrong All I see is my reflection Turn up the music Open a new tab What have I given to her? My love Don’t waste away Heat pulsates Skin burns with shame I am a fire Does nobody hear her? How dare they call themselves Lovers She’s beautiful Cast my eyes down Staring at chipped nails and cold hands Numb days turning into moonlit nights Screaming Screaming Screaming for no one Iron cast She will not bend To see her Pale and prone Needles and paper shackles Reoccurring nightmares Nobody deserves that To come so close to dying That would be to lose her Tears behind glasses Blown off the road Sad songs and backstories Lost She’s beautiful This disorder will eat her alive And I’m scared Because this is my fault And I cannot save her This time There is no ledge Just thoughts To see the day That her beauty fades And her eyes are hollow And jade That is to lose her Please come home

0

Nov 21, 2018

Nov 21, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC

hannah1221

Her Disorder

She’s beautiful Hold her through right and wrong All I see is my reflection Turn up the music Open a new tab What have I given to her? My love Don’t waste away Heat pulsates Skin burns with shame I am a fire Does nobody hear her? How dare they call themselves Lovers She’s beautiful Cast my eyes down Staring at chipped nails and cold hands Numb days turning into moonlit nights Screaming Screaming Screaming for no one Iron cast She will not bend To see her Pale and prone Needles and paper shackles Reoccurring nightmares Nobody deserves that To come so close to dying That would be to lose her Tears behind glasses Blown off the road Sad songs and backstories Lost She’s beautiful This disorder will eat her alive And I’m scared Because this is my fault And I cannot save her This time There is no ledge Just thoughts To see the day That her beauty fades And her eyes are hollow And jade That is to lose her Please come home

48

Superheroes hiding their tortured inner lives behind primary colored-masks and hilarious one-liner comebacks. Normal girls who were actually princesses, but didn’t act like other girls (or other princesses). Space wizards with stupid haircuts. No one understood them, but I did. I knew all their tragic backstories, their hearts’ deepest desires, the ways that they were, like, rejected by society and stuff. I gushed over their bonds of friendship that could never be broken, not by intergalactic politics, ancient feuds between magical species, or the infinite varieties of mind control. I totally supported them when no one else could. I reread the most heart-wrenching pages over and over again, my fingers bubbling the plastic dust jackets and my toes clenching in my mismatched socks. I couldn’t just wade in these worlds—I baptized myself into them, staying under the shallow water for hours without taking a breath. I could never quite feel enough. I squished my eyelids shut, trying to conjure up the tears that my heroes deserved. Behind my wrinkled brow, they lived. Danced. Morphed themselves together into an ever-present consciousness, answering the questions I asked to no one. I talked to it out loud some days, when I was especially alone. Sometimes, I would see these friends out in public, on a graphic tee in the hallway, or a backpack in the classroom. I would always greet them enthusiastically. “I love your t-shirt! Book four is the best!” (With a warm, sweaty face way too much nervous laughter) “That’s such a cool water bottle! Which Avenger is your favorite?” (Hands clutching hair, leg bouncing) “I… like your sketchbook!” (Hopeful smile, averted eyes) And we would talk to each other (!) About our shared interest and have a fun conversation (!) For a few minutes. I’d talk to them the next time I saw them, too. And every time we were in class together. Then I hatched a daring plan. My mom offered permission and a date, my dad offered pizzas and the basement TV, and I extended to my friends an invitation. No one came.

0

May 1, 2020

May 1, 2020 at 2:40 PM UTC

HannahChristina

Imaginary Friends

Superheroes hiding their tortured inner lives behind primary colored-masks and hilarious one-liner comebacks. Normal girls who were actually princesses, but didn’t act like other girls (or other princesses). Space wizards with stupid haircuts. No one understood them, but I did. I knew all their tragic backstories, their hearts’ deepest desires, the ways that they were, like, rejected by society and stuff. I gushed over their bonds of friendship that could never be broken, not by intergalactic politics, ancient feuds between magical species, or the infinite varieties of mind control. I totally supported them when no one else could. I reread the most heart-wrenching pages over and over again, my fingers bubbling the plastic dust jackets and my toes clenching in my mismatched socks. I couldn’t just wade in these worlds—I baptized myself into them, staying under the shallow water for hours without taking a breath. I could never quite feel enough. I squished my eyelids shut, trying to conjure up the tears that my heroes deserved. Behind my wrinkled brow, they lived. Danced. Morphed themselves together into an ever-present consciousness, answering the questions I asked to no one. I talked to it out loud some days, when I was especially alone. Sometimes, I would see these friends out in public, on a graphic tee in the hallway, or a backpack in the classroom. I would always greet them enthusiastically. “I love your t-shirt! Book four is the best!” (With a warm, sweaty face way too much nervous laughter) “That’s such a cool water bottle! Which Avenger is your favorite?” (Hands clutching hair, leg bouncing) “I… like your sketchbook!” (Hopeful smile, averted eyes) And we would talk to each other (!) About our shared interest and have a fun conversation (!) For a few minutes. I’d talk to them the next time I saw them, too. And every time we were in class together. Then I hatched a daring plan. My mom offered permission and a date, my dad offered pizzas and the basement TV, and I extended to my friends an invitation. No one came.

37

The long-running, much-celebrated show turned out not to be a metaphor for climate change, feminist empowerment or anything anyone at all hoped for really. The show turned out to be just a symbol for itself, for failed institutions, institutional disappointments, a theme mined by a much better HBO program that ended its run years and years and years ago. Viewers were up in arms everywhere over errant character arcs, unearned twists, abandoned storylines, forsaken backstories, squandered character development, the burning detritus of lazy writing atop a pile of false promises. Every institution fails you in the end. In the end, no matter how much it seems like a marble pillar or Valyrian steel forged in a furnace of dragonfire, every institution ultimately fails you in the end.

0

May 20, 2019

May 20, 2019 at 3:55 AM UTC

joseph-s-pete

Series Finale

The long-running, much-celebrated show turned out not to be a metaphor for climate change, feminist empowerment or anything anyone at all hoped for really. The show turned out to be just a symbol for itself, for failed institutions, institutional disappointments, a theme mined by a much better HBO program that ended its run years and years and years ago. Viewers were up in arms everywhere over errant character arcs, unearned twists, abandoned storylines, forsaken backstories, squandered character development, the burning detritus of lazy writing atop a pile of false promises. Every institution fails you in the end. In the end, no matter how much it seems like a marble pillar or Valyrian steel forged in a furnace of dragonfire, every institution ultimately fails you in the end.

16