"blog" poems
I'm making this for you
To show you how I feel
I told you last night how I felt
And it felt like a weight was taken off me
Maybe I'm doing this for me
To help me deal with you
Not in a bad way
God you're so perfect
Welcome to your blog
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Haven't made a heart to heart blog post in a while..
So recently a friend of mine messaged me on kik. We kinda drifted apart, but all the same we drifted back again .. You know that feeling?
She's asked me about how I was and what new things we going on in my life and then out of know where she asked me how I got into what I do, that , for those of you that don't know, is makeup.
It a happy, funny, weird story all at the one time.
As some of you already know, when I was 5 my parents died and I moved to Paris with my nan (<3) and she always wears red lipstick, even to this day. Lipstick , red lipstick to be more exact, was only worn by the higher class women and was generally quite expensive. Us Dean family have a ... Tradition I suppose. When a mother gives her child her very first red lipstick it means that she, in the eyes of the family, has matured and such not blah blah blah. Anyway. I didn't have my mom to do that ,so my nan took that role instead.
At the ages of in and around 14 I started wearing makeup, but never in public, my nan wouldn't allow such things. I always tried to copy her make up , because she was the only female figure I had as a child , and the only person I ever respected. Even to this day my makeup is still like hers , she notices that ever time I visit haha ~
I started posting picture of my makeup ideas on my old facebook about 3 years ago and one day a represtentive from Lancôme called me and asked me to work for them , I said yes. I told my nan that day and she gave me my first red lipstick and I still have it to this day
je t'aime Nana <3
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
i used to have a potent mind
so full of ideas and thoughts
but then i started smoking ***
from time to time to time
i used to think i had a bright future
i went to school and college and got a degree
but all along the way i had a good, old friend
this scoundrels name is Demon Marijuana
my good friend Demon Marijuana loves me
she comes over and gets me high and then i come
to see the light for just a while longer
before fading back into a fetal curl
i used to think i’d go somewhere and conquer
i went to go and sit some place instead
and stuffed my pipe with grass and inhaled deeply
the aromatic smoke of my old friend
i used to have a potent mind
so full of big dreams and illusions
but then i started smoking ***
from time to time to time
my good friend Demon Marijuana loves me
she comes over and we get high and then she goes
leaving me in the dark a little longer
then fading back into the beginning gray
originally posted on my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com/ on August 20, 2014
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Injustice!
Posted by Olivia Kent on June 4, 2013 at 3:11pm
View Blog
Suffer not thy children,
In a waiter service world of injustice,
Nothingness in a world of tragic poverty,
In a drizzle of tears,
The children drown
Emaciated children,
Not smiling as they die,
In world of war-craft,
Dying,
A little more each day,
Not smiling as they should,
Punished,
Living in a punitive world of cruelty,
Where craft of war is rife,
Screams,
Imagined in heads of strangers,
Insanity,
Piercing with horror,
Ears sickened,
By violent imagery envisaged,
Emaciated child,
*** bellied,
Gaunt,
Virtually lifeless,
Dead before death,
Snatches,
Life blood vanished,
Without request!
There is no youthful exuberance on this face,
Overjoyed,
Delighted,
I don't live in this place!
Copywrite Livvi Kent 04/06/2013
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
He’s like a character in a book which is every girl’s dream, just like me. But no, he’s not just a cast in a story. Maybe the way he puts his thoughts into words, the way he speaks, the way he acts or expresses his feelings through his posts, his attitudes or the sweet efforts he made. I always dream and hope that I would find a man like him. Because all of his attitudes, no, not all, but some of his attitudes I want my future boyfriend to have--my ideal boyfriend; intelligent, gentleman, knows how to respect a girl, really knows God and many more. And I always fall in love with him once I read his posts. Sometimes, I get teary-eyed when I read some of his posts or feel like crying when I finish reading it and I don’t even know why and I am like asdfghjkl. He’s a real man. He had it all. He has this thing that when you’ll go back read to his blog you didn’t even notice that you’re falling in love with him. It’s like falling in love with a fictional character. Even though you don’t even know him.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
Rules:
1.You have to write a poem on the given prompt for each day [in the given order] and then share it with fellow challenge takers (optional but recommended) by posting what you wrote in your blog or on Facebook or wherever. To make sharing and tracking easier, you can use this hashtag: #eleven11poetrychallenge
2. The poem can be of any length and the prompt can be interpreted anyway you want. Poems can be written in English or Nepali.
3. The whole idea is to write, share, grow and have fun! So if you are cool with it, check this space for daily prompt.
Prompts:
Day one: A poem from the perspective of an inanimate object
Day two: A poem in the format of a conversation
Day three: Write a poem that tells a story (with a beginning, middle, end..but not necessarily in that order), which is completely imaginary or is not based on a reality that YOU know of.
Day four: A wishlist, with 11 of your wishes.
Day five: Write a Haiku. Or two.
Day six: Let's talk about *** baby! [Write a poem about *** (not *** and gender, 'sex' if we are unclear.]
Day seven: Only sixteen--a poem about the person you were when you were sixteen [or about the person you want to be, if you are not yet 16]
Day eight: A poem describing a photograph or painting.
Day nine: Write a letter to your murderer.
Day ten: A poem about your worst nightmare.
Day Eleven: Write a poem about yourself, in Nepali. IF you already write in Nepali, that is great. If you don't, then this prompt s your chance
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
The progression of Huntington's disease often leads to the need of a wheelchair. My husband resisted using a wheelchair for many years, even though his poor balance and tiredness meant he was prone to falls. I didn't exactly pressurise him into using one. To be honest it was not just because it was another sign of loss of independence, but it would have been harder for me too in many respects.
What I wasn't prepared for, when the time came, was the social stigma attached to wheelchair users insofar as becoming a kind of non-entity! In a weekly blog I wrote in 2008 I wrote about the first time I took my husband out in a wheelchair. It angered me how peoples’ attitudes seemed to change overnight.
Walking down the High Street,
Hand in hand like lovers,
The couple blend into the crowd,
No different from the others.
As the years go by though,
His body having changed,
Has sadly meant a wheelchair,
Has had to be arranged.
Strolling down same High Street,
The woman now behind,
Her lover needing pushing,
Steep pavements so unkind.
Entering the bar now,
With awkward navigation;
People jump to open door,
Aware of situation.
“Thank you” says the man in chair,
When wheeled into the place;
“Welcome” say the helpers there,
But all avoid his face.
Carer gets the “Welcome” mouthed,
No looks with him they share;
Let’s treat this fellow human being,
As if he wasn't there.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'Hopter' to go above the clouds
Shout all my pains and get out from the crowd,
Wait for the rain and see the lightning strike the ground.
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'anywhere door' to travel around the world
Oh, I'll bring my wardrobe, my lover, my bed and even my dog
With one step, I can go anywhere and write it on my blog.
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'copying toast' to get different certifications
I'll memorize Merriam, Websters, Harry Potter and have an oration
I'll be the smartest person alive and wait I can feel the mutation!
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'dress up camera' to get all all the dress that I want
I'm going to wear Gucci, Prada, Channel and even Dolce and Gabbana
I'll be more than the Hollywood stars, yeah I don't need Santa.
But Doraemon is not real,
He's not even mine, he is Nobita's childhood best friend.
That show taught me a great lesson - you don't need any gadget
to be happy, to have friends, to be satisfied or to feel loved.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
I grew up in South Auckland, Takanini
the only Pakeha in the caravan park,
I learnt how to be tall, smart and skinny
how to raise the end of my sentences in an arc.
At school, we were told words held power;
but for teachers words were flowers,
and my friend Cruz had two brothers
Harley and Davidson - they belonged to Black Power,
their fists tattooed with something like “Smother”.
But there was never violence on our street, gang was family;
I usually never felt more at home around Bourbon,
loud Reggae, bags of **** and men so manly
they’d cry over love, and I wouldn’t get a word in.
Though my Father votes National and thinks Michael Laws is right
so moves us to Dunedin where it’s ninety percent white.
I stopped reading Lenin and picked up Rousseau
became a vegetarian, thought it was so cool you know,
even wrote a blog that discussed rise from below.
But I’ll never know below again
until I’m drunk in an old shed at 3am on a school night
singing along to Bob Marley in Maori,
sunk deep into the mattress propped against the Harley,
the one you and I would cruise on until dawn together
as police took to the streets in riot gear -
we’d get lost in the country and learn to smother
our thoughts in starlight then stagger over,
listen in to the darkness,
and just slowly breathe
the crisp, cool air of the kiwi tundra.
They say New Zealand has two flags,
but in the country, when you’re blazed
on the benefit, ****** on the disdain
for positive discrimination, you can pick out
all the small bright koru unfurling in the stars.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
Pick up any respected poetry collection. Are there poems that go on and on about ex lovers? I'm not talking about a motif or a metaphor, I'm talking about something like:
"I remember your hair color
I remember your shirt size
I remember your favorite ice cream"
Did any of that seem interesting? No, it's a list of junk you miss. People in a similar position might find it relatable, but what's to stop that from being a blog or Tumblr post?
If you're going to be autobiographical, you need to walk a thin line between whining and writing poetry. Plath wrote poetry about her life, but she sure as hell did not write strictly about her life.
It has to be alive on its own accord, not because you're a human being there to be the meat puppet for a human idea.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
My creativity has created this creation.
The outcome of my creation reflects only to the Creator.
The inner Narrator narrates a repetitive monologue.
Believe me, I've seen the films, and I've read that ******* blog.
Long logging of nights.
Internal.
External.
Fights.
Anger lasts.
I employed that past to take power away from fear.
Aware now of being here.
Consciousness.
Humbleness.
This doesn't come from admission.
Remission of a previous mission.
My dispositions constriction from speaking up.
**** that.
That cup.
That rig.
Spoon.
***
Drug.
Love is what I need.
Love is what I give.
Creating only a creation to love to live.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Anonymity is an illusion
He tells me.
He tells me,
No-one can remain unknown
On the World Wide Web.
Don't think deletion makes a difference,
Don't think that everything you've ever sent
Received
And posted,
Isn't hosted on a server
Forever,
Awaiting discovery and disclosure.
He could find me in minutes,
He could find me,
If he wanted to.
He doesn't,
But what if he did?
What if he did?
I would feel safer
If I'd posted intimate photos
Or sexted a thousand faceless strangers.
My poems are a diary of my soul,
My hearts' helpless, hopeful blog.
They expose me.
No-one knows me here,
But he could find me,
And he would know.
No-one is anonymous,
No-one is unknown.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC
Just survived a cyclone on 12-october-2014.No loss to lives but massive, colossal damage to trees.Almost all the trees have either been uprooted or lost its branches by the cyclone travelling at 180-240 km per hour speed.
I have a few details about the cyclone in my blog and few pictures of the present city, Visakhapatnam.
I request everyone to at least have a look at the pictures.
Here's a link to the blog.
http://purvigadia.blogspot.in/
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
i’m so ******* weird
from the time i could talk
i could never get the language just right
since the first time i walked
been stumbling and awkwardly fumbling along
a slow learner is what they called me
in the back offices of the training institutions
the doctors and teachers didn’t know what to do
but my experience was as true as any without solutions
wish i could find the best words to remind me of you
keep your eye on the ball
or sing the tune to your own songs
you never get the balance right or wrong
life’s as short as it is twice as long
driving around in a teenage mind looking for something to prove
we would draw pictures in art class in high school
most of the kids would paint flowers or attempt portraits
i would draw intense war scenes prophesizing the end to come
with underground bunkers and a militarized fortress
to harbor the last remaining scraps of humanity and my sanity
i’m so weird
they called it an autism spectrum disorder
but i wonder if i’m actually possessed by a demon
a love demon dancing out on the border
between insanity and the truth and the divine
i’m so ******* weird
i especially am slow
stumbling and tumbling toward the light
always right, always wrong, i know
since the day that i was born i’ve always been a slow learner and a loon
originally posted on my blog at https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com/ on January 8, 2015
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
Here it goes again,
Here it comes again,
The articles about
Psychopaths
And the accusatory tone
Twisting behaviors
Twisting actions
To sound toxic
To sound dangerous
To stamp a big red label on my skin,
Screaming
"AVOID THIS ONE AT ALL COSTS"
While I sit and weep.
But these articles
Blog posts
People fleeing from me
Left and right
Are lies, right?
Tell me, please,
Tell me,
Someone?
My anxiety and need to be reassured
Roots from my PTSD,
And my neediness and wants for attention
Is normal for my upbringing,
Right?
And writing poem after poem
About how much I care for you,
And making playlists
With songs in it
That make me think of you,
Is just a sign that I care,
Right?
I don't want to be
A psychopath.
I don't want to be
A toxic person,
I don't understand
How telling someone you love them,
Is bad?
But these articles say that showering someone
In constant attention and praise
Means you're a psychopath.
And these blog posts
Are telling me that poems and gifts and music,
All means you're selfish and unfeeling.
But I don't want to be,
I care so much, I love you so much.
I'm afraid
Of who I am.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
the newbie failure complex(ity)
the poems come torrentially,
hurricane, waterfall & tornado are working adjectives
worthy of the task, yet unequal to the unlimited army
of the written dead of unread poems and poets
that occupy the nether of blog, podcast, and poetry sites,
orphan stars in the un-salvaged junkyard galaxy of verbiage
a faceless wight, once alive, now permanently dead,
we shuffle march, chanting each our own newbie poem,
onward soldiers to ignominy and glory so fleeting,
we are forgot before we are remembered
*this is life in poetry,
or better yet,
the worst of it, (sigh)
this is the poetry of lives*
all for nought,
nought for all,
at least we pass our prison time
in the company of fellow strugglers*
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 5:44 PM UTC
viral and trending
as fifteen minutes has become a lifetime
and 45 seconds is more what it looks like
to be internet famous –
fat cats and mall rats in Spanx
sippling frozen latte’s
with 8 shots of circle K crack
violently Instagram-ing every moment
constantly trolling for the one big hit –
social media ***** bored with “likes”
looking to blog the best tweets
and Facebook with the losers
of last year’s season of
Celebrity Chef –
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Mannequin smiles with masks of plastic
stand and huddle, fight and juggle,
for their space in the crowd.
Elbows touching torsos,
torsos touching hips;
kisses under the darkness,
bonfire warming the lips.
A child sits on the shoulders of her rock,
hands resting in the lap of his head,
waiting for the fireworks to be ignited,
set off, lit and begin.
Eyes of raw astonishment,
watery with cold,
a deer eye mould,
looked up at the firework display.
Sharp colour crayon lines
were drawn in the night-time sky.
Sound followed,
cheers and claps, applauds too.
They were lost in the hollow hole
of the houses around,
this’ll be the one she remembers.
Her first display of sound and light
and she’ll remember how she jumped up and down
to carnival music and carnival folk, rides and light,
menagerie sights.
News from the blog regarding my new poetry pamphlet, check the link out>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/2012/11/homeland-borderland.html
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
painting when being bilingual, the naked phonetics of the english alphabet, and the diacritics on the polish one, for example -sh- of the former and -sz- of the latter, but the painting is still entitled: trying to capture what was being said without lip-reading but by optics encoding the sounds, so that someone bilingual might decipher; and yes, dependent of aesthetics / orthography the -rz- versus the ż.
azog
szak gaum'dasz!
blog
kruto, goniś... gunwondersmargen'ś.
azog
mor'rzyrljisz?
blog
golumdo, sza zu lisz sza za duh.
azog
jam dysz! *** da kurz nak krza rzuk;
arz ga bejark gundabadul,
mar kam narm karszrz.
mulgaj! a'naj! ursdraj! tu pu nam - ah me c!
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
she used to be okay.
always a smile on her face and
she talked with a sweet voice,
which is something i don't want to under state,
and she never really cared that she was
40 pounds overweight.
but now as she lays on the beach
and no boys and no girls look her way
she feels invisible, even while she dreams of
being able to tell her parents that she
might be gay.
her parents talk about her figure
and how she'll never compare to how her
sister looked when she was her age.
thin, toned legs and a stomach with abs.
after all, who wants to date a girl
with flabs?
she has a blog dedicated to the thin girls
who make her feel so bad,
it makes her feel less,
it makes her feel sad.
if only she counted calories and
if only she could fit in that size two,
maybe she's be the perfect daughter that
her parents wish they knew.
but even as she drinks a sprite and
takes all her bites in spite she knows that
if she was skinny then
everything would be alright.
all she needs a push and a pro ana friend and
maybe she can be the perfect daughter
again. She can't like girls and she
must skip dinner, by the end of the year her
bones and boyfriend will
show that she is a winner.
-r.a.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
A Life Bounded With Regret,
Each Regret Always a Secret
The Regrets Neither known Nor Described,
It was Only Later that they were realised
Regrets always hard to refrain,
Difficult to sustain
Still remains its effect
In the small looking heart
The regrets of life,
We desired to live.
Regrets of the dream,
We dreamt to achieve.
Regret of the idea,
We thought to pursue.
Regrets of the pain,
We wanted to rescue.
Regrets Of the Laugh,
Which lasted for a short-while;
Regrets of pleasures,
Which ended in no time.
The regrets of loss,
The loss of love;
The feel to love,
The feel to be loved.
Regrets of the efforts,
Which could have been more,
Regrets of the problems ,
Which could have been solved.
Regrets of the feel,
Which could have been felt
And LAstly
Regrets of the End,
Which could have been changed
---------- Aakash Joshi { http://aakashjoshi2620.blogspot.in/} my blog
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
tinyurl-dot-com/d-m-latest-poems
That's a shortcut to my poemhunter poems.
The search my poems option helps ME find my poems.
Visit the standard webpage or the print-friendly text version.
The end of October 2013 has meant quite a few poems were added.
Some were about the Stephen Gayford wildlife prints.
They are being sold on UK TV's Shopping channels.
I visit their websites and view the images and watch the TV demos.
Since joining hellopoetry, I visited several members' blogs and websites.
I've also visited the youtube-dot-com website to see members' videos.
My Stephen Gayford blog is here: denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
I've checked Google for any websites that have used my poetry.
The images search also found lots of fantastic websites, too.
The deviantart-dot-com website features lots of fantasy art images.
They can lead poets to brand new poetry description ideas.
Just use the search site option for a desired poetry topic.
My Fantasy Art click-a-pic slideshow has some Superhero artwork,
view the wonderful galleries here: jennifersjpgs-dot-shows-dot-it
and some of my Superhero poems have been published based on these.
The Google image 'my name' search found lots of images like never before.
Regards, Denis Martindale.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
is a governing **********
is lamer than Carrot Top cracking ***** jokes.
has a secret blog called "Pro4Life4Guns4God".
mentions the sexiness of my beard every time we hang out.
spills coffee on his crotch every time we brew a batch.
paints his **** for sporting events.
won't drink alcohol.
***** himself daily to clear his head.
prays for forgiveness every day after ******* himself.
is a box in a cage.
is beige, nursing home wallpaper.
is a real barrier,
to really living.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
*“Whatever anyone does or says, I must be emerald and keep my colour.”
(Marcus Aurelius; Meditations)*
As many of you may already know by now, the above quote by Marcus Aurelius has been my motto in life. But today I raise a question for all of us to think about! What happens when one day someone comes exploding into your life and already knows that you're an emerald? You have spent your life keeping your color; despite the fears, betrayals, disappointments and hurts, then what if one day somebody falls down from the assembly of the gods and simply knows you through and through? Your color, your worth... the fact that you are emerald! The question is: how do you stop "keeping" color, when all you have left to do is simply to "be" emerald? No more fear. How does one begin to cope with the sudden loss of fear? Certainly it is the very best thing that can happen to an individual on earth, but I am startled by the realization that letting go of the battle against life and simply being alive, might actually require courage, in itself! It takes courage not only to fight; it also takes courage to believe that good things can happen. It takes courage to simply have grace, to breathe. There comes a time when you no longer need to protect yourself, and that is just as honourable, and perhaps even more honourable, than all the battles you stood up to fight!
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC