"blandest" poems
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.
She sickens herself.
She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to
She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself
She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity
She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption
But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A vomit-inducing statistic
As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Don't judge me.
You don't know my life, my circumstances,
My heartbreak.
It seems like people only care about
How they measure up to others.
They are disgraced by people who can't measure--
Disgraced by me.
But no one knows.
No one knows its me.
Sometimes I hate my name.
It happens when I hate my self.
Called out in shame,
No one had time to listen,
Time to hold me,
Time to care.
Do they know what they are doing?
Do they know the difference between put downs
And let downs?
Do they know that the pain they give me
Is worse than any physical pain I have endured?
If they do,
They don't care.
They live to measure;
I can't measure.
But,
How sweet it is
When I get called beautiful.
Who knew I could be beautiful?
Me, the blandest and saddest pretender in the world--
Beautiful?
I'm feeling of worth,
My world is changing.
What he says is worth all the heartbreak in the world.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
a humming flourescent bath
singing the blandest tune
and a sticky tile line graph
forecasting certain doom
as time weaves a boring stretch
on his relentless loom
it occurs to me I'm still
the worst part of this room
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
It should be dark.
Ethereality is brought upon by shadows
Comforting shades that beautifully waylay prancing lights
permeating mysticism to arouse the blandest of hearts.
Clustered crowns of effervescent greens scraped the sky
Their lithe fingers clasped, uneasy to divulge light
yet they do so for their trunkless kin at their feet
There should be music.
At dusk the chiming of army throats moan
the deep humming legato of elastic croak to their content
rich baritones with an orchestral blend of alluring notes.
Exoskeletal feet, an angels' choir too quick to play
Their voices, violins in concerto with hissing air
that slither in between the crevices of trees for beauty to play
I should be afraid.
A tiny mouse that shifts beneath dry leaves should scare
Rustling grass dimmed by jet skies fill you with dread
The tapping of leafless hands on rusted roof puts you under duress
Flash lightning mimics the morning in negative filter
The heavy blows of drizzling rain harmoniously mix with discordant wind
Then when it all settles, the beating of your own cardinal is unnerving.
Then I realize, all of which I stated are now in memory
That the stone road that always greeted me is now but dry and dirt
That the music I once heard met a sharp end that made everything else flat
That the movement in the brush no longer shivered my spine
That the birds and beasts will never again come to cheer
That the storms that ravaged my midsummer's night dream
is the same storm that ravaged my youth
And without these childhood memories
I am left unsophisticated, rural
Bare.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
Resting on my cross,
Moss crawling it's way up.
Interrupt, crows break the silence.
Ever since my mouth has become sown shut.
That image of the woman,
Has been stuck inside my head,
Dread, that sudden realization,
Migration impossible I am tied to a cross.
Around me is grain,
Pain of blandest stings my eyes.
Sunrise is coming,
Running to me she smiles.
Fixing my coat she picks at the straw,
Caww caww, she mocks the crows.
Oh that smile warms me,
Please stay here.
All done now she leaves with a hug,
Tug on my cross I want to wrap my arms around her.
Brrrr winter's breeze blows by,
Goodbye sunrise.
Night falls upon my space,
Taste, the crows all swarm me for salty tears,
Years of torture the crows pick me apart,
No heart, no courage, no brain.
Just the pain of the cross.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 9:36 AM UTC
i rather have nothing with you than everything with anyone else.
i rather live in a tiny shoe box apartment with you than live in a mansion with anyone else.
i rather go through the sadness of not being able to see you on valentines day than go through the happiness of seeing anyone else.
i rather walk in silence with you than talk about the blandest of things with anyone else.
i could sit in absolute silence with you and still have the time of my life. everything is better when you are around, and sadly you are not, but that's okay. and well, i love you; more than you could ever know.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC