"blabbed" poems
some barber once told me
i was too fat for my own good
and little me was heartbroken
his harsh words weren't understood
because i was okay when i looked in the mirror
and mom and dad loved me so
but when the barber blabbed on and on
i knew the chubby arms and legs had to go
and so i felt bad for years
until one day i suddenly thought:
i don't even go to that barber's barber shop!
i don't need to worry about the things i'm not!
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Hurtful actions are acted everywhere
People commit them, they don't care
Thinking they're right in every way
Doing what they doing just isn't the same
They host campaigns to overrun us
They advertise just to ruin us
How can one live in a world of people that's not free
Then they expect the nation to live together in peace
In a country, there are groups
Of people mixed together like soup
They discriminate, they shame
They make everyone feel the same
Separation between skin tones
Determination above them all
All they did was for peace and success to win
Sadly they weren't accepted and instead were rejected
I would always FIGHT for peace
NEVER would I let go of my dream
I've learnt to be fierce
Find a hole and pierce
The walls that'd soon come down
The mighty parliament would drown
The ruling would never fight, they don't have the time
Many would rejoice and give, others make choices a dream
I would rather love in a nation with peace
At least, everyday I would be able to live
With different, equal people of another race
Where we'd all be happy, all at the same place
Yes I'd rather be an equal
I'd rather not be an official
Everyday is a brand new day with many possibilities
Everyone should try and achieve the impossibility
I look at the world
I see they're hurt
From all the fighting
And all the slaying
All they do is peach their sermons
On how peace should be theirs
Yet no-one had the courage to make a change
They'd rather DIE than be an honest saint
Peace has not been added
Peace had not been blabbed
FIGHTS are common
Fights are ruining
People are afraid
People can change
Parties rule hard
Parties separate us
Actions are physical
Actions hurt people
I think I can be the changing agent
I know I can be the one who shapes the world to perfection
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Just when the ****** I found on your bedroom floor,
was finally clarifying our relationship as casual and nothing more,
you went and blabbed about your nan.
I wish you'd stop baring random bits of your soul,
when this has been nothing but a ***** call,
and quit crossing the line I keep drawing in the sand.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
I couldn’t remember what had kept me here in the first place. Trying to look back that far nearly snaps my neck. Your face no longer holds an image in my brain, but I remember your words. They painted a picture themselves.
“Smoking hinders your sensibility. Sight, smell, taste, touch, even your ability to feel. Trying to smell your dinner sometimes strains my head. Not because it is bad, but because cigarettes are just so **** good.”
I stared at the overflowing ashtray and grief engulfed me as if I were staring into an uprooted cemetery. With analyzing every crinkled **** smoked down to its perimeter–except for one that was half smoked, and leaving a cigarette incomplete was uncommon for you, so this was undoubtedly the first and last one you didn’t get to finish–I imagined this to be an accurate illustration of what your lungs must’ve looked like when you last sat in that shabby recliner you considered your throne. You held your words with grace and pride when you coupled them with a smoke, and if my memory serves me right, I don’t believe you spoke all at when you didn’t. The majority of the time, you would push your throne closer and closer to the television like someone was going to take it away from you. Who knew one day you would be right.
I picked up the ***** half-cigarette from the tray and blew off the relic it wore like it was a dusty picture frame found in an attic. Nothing about it called to me, at least not the way you pretended it did.
“I need my smokes! It’s morning. I can’t start my day without one.”
“Some ***** at work blabbed about me taking smoke breaks and nearly got me suspended.”
When you developed a cough, they began calling to you in a different way.
“If I stop now, then all this would be for nothing.”
“It’s been proven that people become sicker when they quit.”
When you would try to quit:
“You might want to leave me alone for a week, I’m going to be grumpy until I get over the first phase.”
When you would quit quitting:
“You’re stressing me out, I need one!”
These statements have played in my head in incessant unison, and with forgetting the sound of your voice, they have taken the sound of mine. I keep the conversation going to prevent the silence from driving me mad.
Holding the tip of the cigarette against my lips, I pretended I was kissing you, and for a moment, I swear, I tasted you. You tasted terrible.
I lit it and rid myself of the only thing you left behind, for your sake
(to finish what you started)
and mine.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
Elaine thinks
(while eating
her dinner)
about John
on the bus
how other
kids know now
about them
and the kiss
at her home
no secret
anymore
since her young
sister blabbed
to them all
her mother
sits beside
her silent
her father
(knowing not
a thing
about that
kissing stuff)
sits talking
about work
her sister
(blabbermouth)
sits moody
opposite
mouthing food
Elaine wants
that warm kiss
once again
but she wants
that this time
she will know
when he'll kiss
she forks up
a burnt chip
and mouths it
her mother
just after
her father
stops talking
says sharply
he kissed her
who kissed whom?
Father asks
looking wide eyed
at his wife
that boy John
kissed your daughter
the father
gazes at his
youngest girl
not Elaine
I thought he
was with our
Elaine not
Princess
he utters
he didn't
kiss Princess
but Elaine
Mother says
didn't kiss
me how yuck
Princess says
he went kissed
my Plump Hen?
Father says
gazing at
Elaine with
amusement
did he Hen?
Elaine blushes
stops eating
just the once
not a lot
she tells him
fancy that
he mutters
one never
knows what God
has in store
in our house
Mother says
when he came
that Sunday
he kissed her
just the once
Elaine adds
well no more
not again
if he comes
again here
Mother says
Princess yawns
Father smiles
fancy that
my Plump Hen
getting kissed
Mother glares
at Father
the moral
(immoral)
of kissing
has been missed.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
It was about a day and every day
The silence not reaching his ears
The voice not reaching her tongue,
Not the silence of unspoken, but of paradox
Not the vocals of vowels, but few words of truth.
The Moon was often bright,
His sea always shiny,
The beach at the end muddy,
The clouds near him in a hurry,
As if to not hide, Sea to his Moon.
A cheerful morning with chirping birds
Hosted a Mister and his Missie,
She shimmered as if an heiress of upper lands
He looked content as if the master of time,
She laughed and laughed as to chorus song of birds
He chuckled often, whenever laughter nuzzle.
And the magic of eyes was also present,
She looked at him with her forgotten existence
He looked at her as if his most fragile possession.
She blabbed and blabbed and said nothing,
He spoke on occasion few words of Solace.
On his dimmest days, Sea would often ask as if scared "will you come tomorrow", gazing hopefully
And the Moon would speak as if drunk "for sure". Seeming, weary.
-Ocean
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 8:00 AM UTC