"blurting" poems
A sigh in the dark.
Past my jaded lips it rises
like a ghost, and I the host
of thoughts enamoured but unwanted,
unresolved.
Night takes my sight and unleashes vision
I watch (not my decision) the memories bloom to life.
Ethereal and hazy, those lazy summer days
Of hasty plans, promises, platitudes made;
childish to dream it could have stayed
the same.
Polite and awkward we shuffle in the light of day,
you think before you act and mind what you say
and if lucky enough you might get away
without blurting a thought from your head gone astray.
Why do eyes so bright bring such dark thoughts?
Why do we fear to take what we want?
A sigh in the dark.
Across chilled skin it spreads
like fire, this unspoken desire
between whispering sheets. Fingers grasp and twine,
I feel hers, she feels mine, as we search in the dark
together.
This night air we’ll share;
it's vice, and with vigour,
seeking the trigger
to release.
To resolve.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
Again life cycles to a clutter, ideas thought through
don't anymore seem as though,
even when expressed aloud and not within.
Maybe they're right,
my ignorance is only withholding wonders
I struggle to actually see.
Hypocritically, I find importance in self enrichment
and observing from afar.
and yet even from a distance you feel so close.
Is this an evolution or is it just another mutation.
Obscure out of any cultural norm, I resonate
impairing those who hear my words.
This constant metamorphosis has left me staring in the mirror for
hours, searching for the presence of my subjected form.
Yet,
while I peer into the interworkings of my reflection
to observe what I actually see...
With all truth, it holds a boy,
an awkwardly timid boy.
Insecurely gazing back into the pupils
of his reality.
He's bellowing inside his
submerged mind.
Subconsciously Blurting:
"Do not turn back,
their are cyclones that await.
And all that is required
to overcome this task
is to go forth without
pondering times long gone...
So here I am, engaulphed
in tidal winds.
I must break loose;
grow, starting from
below.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC
A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets,
casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below.
Beneath the cascading denizens of light,
a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky,
a patient without his insurance with nothing left but
callous empty third-person reassurance,
"everything will be better" as she said.
But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter.
Save your proverbs for an open ear,
this one is half deaf and full of itself,
despite your intent,
your lack of action perpetuates malcontent.
After all we're all just passing moments
gone and forgotten, evicted,
convicted of being a gutless mime,
going through the motions,
minus a true notion.
A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak
spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities
subtracting numerals adding funerals
dividing families multiplying tragedies
It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate
we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life.
Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry,
pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince.
And I'm stuck spinning in the corner,
with my hands on my head.
Senselessly blurting out: Why?!
But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul
trapped with my head in the sky.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
How ironic to not seek the tools yet drool on them
To see the instruments and break down like a phlegm
How naïve of us to use the gym as an excuse
To prolong it, as if it were drug use
Some call it dopamine others call it clarity
Most see an opening to showcase their barbarity
Called less of a man to those "better off"
Called less of a woman to those showing pictures with their sweater off
Lust driving companies to show children compromised
We see these plaything while revenue boosts the enterprise
Anime, video games, novels and Tv
Nothing seems too extreme for these mediums
Beheading, shredding, **** and made "Dream-like"
Topics have been explored beyond their tedium
**** is accessible and Ai makes your dream man
Merge yourself with your idol beyond the imagination of a regular Stan
Be praised for wearing Japanese *********** and condoning said behavior
Treat somebodies feet pics like your very own savior
The beast wins not with wit, but with a pattern
To catch us in the act frozen still like Saturn
Internet connections show us the milky way
And your hands remain adamant, your mind filthy
The beasts doesn't care of November, nor valentines or about your crush
It waits to clamp you, and turn you into dust
Too ashamed to seek humanity, too far gone to find morality
Repeated until insanity, Your mouth blurting profanities
And yet we blame the beast when our relationships end or we cant break a ***** habit
Then try to pray to catch up to the Sabbath
Why Lie to the beast and to ourselves?
To those who use their hands or run to cheap hotels
Is *********** more worthwhile than redemption?
The beast is with me as I type this, judging my every move
It laughs, uses slurs and denying my attempts to improve
It lives in you, no matter how content you are with your sexuality
And does its all to destroy your Mentality
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 8:41 AM UTC
What comes next?
A fusion with brain and internet? *** text.
descriptions of positions and inhibitions undone
crawling down the screen,
like morse code across the sea
or an old computer reading cards, blurting out silent sentences
passing lights on the screen,
then gone
or the News crawl passing on the bottom of the TV
without the repeats
all in our imaginations
the touches, movements, even some sensations
the connection of two biologies
two living breathing human beings,
much more complicated than simple machines
But this is the computer,
the technology star
that brought us fame and power and wealth
Now seems a bit in ill health.
A downward spiral,
like a old rock star, playing at a seedy corner bar:
the technology that sent a man to the moon
and fought the Soviets until their doom
the frightening technology
of my childhood years,
big computers creating bigger fears
and now being put to good use
as I have my fellow in a metaphorical noose
our fingers go across the keys
and send signals to each other's bodies
connected in imagination with mine
and it's frightening how it works to well
Almost like reality, I can barely tell
but then it's over and in the after glow
A thought taps me on the shoulder, tells me I should know
that in the end the bond with the human being
has evaporated like silent steam,
Not because we're mean
But because he's not there
but now I'm aware
of a peculiar new bond with my phone
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
It's been a while since I've let my fingers do the talking
Subtle clattering intermittent between self consuming stares into space
Strange and conventional instrumental atmospheres driving fantastical thought
And that self indulgent need to be heard by people without discernible cells
I guess my poems are a hobby of sorts
A collection of ideas, observations and metaphors put forward (barely) structurally
Though I admit the process is more for introverted enjoyment than anything direct
What my tongue would sound blurting these words is a fantasy in itself
I try to stay optimistic in them
Holding on to my passion for the positive, despite the convoluted dysfunction of the day to day
I do it with the same eyes as speaking to others, trying to be someone who's worth being around
Ending with some ******* non-committal message about an approach towards tomorrow
I hope one day I'll get around to reading these poems
Hearing what my inner monologue sounds like in that quiet but intently occupied space
Taking the time off poor sods who'll listen, hoping that the messages mean more than just metaphor
But I'll get over it if life doesn't produce such idealistic circumstances
Thanks for reading what I've written
These white spaces have given me a quiet personal realm for exploring ideas
A place where I can explore my intelligence beyond academia
Indulge my passion for the written word by pouring out gallons of ********
And hopefully make someone, somewhere, smile in the process
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
things she doesn’t ask...
are they things,
she doesn’t know to ask,
or
are they things
to which,
she does not want to know
the answers.
my not knowing the answer to this puzzle,
drives me to distraction, her Mona Lisa smile,
accompanied by her noncommittal “whatever,”
hiding the answer, nearly leads me over a blurting edge,
but for my inevitable retreat, for the true question,
has a truer answer, that comes as well,
in question form.
Why do I,
or do I,
want to know?
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC
.
Laundry detergent
and love, broken hearted
Dark nights and witches
and dearly departed
Death in the front yard
with bright flowers blooming
Winter and summer,
all seasons are looming
Fireflies, evergreens,
balloons colored yellow
A beautiful woman,
an old grouchy fellow
The sun and the moon
and the stars that are shining
Laughter and teardrops,
occasional whining
Sunrises, sunsets,
the beach and the ocean
A walk in the park
or a magical potion
A bird on a fence
or a babe in a cradle
The dish and the spoon
ran away with a ladle?
*** that is sensual,
pain that is hurting
Humor and drama,
some things I am blurting
Long ones and shorts ones
and some in between
A king in a castle
defending his queen
Rhyming and free verse,
it’s endless and mounting
Ten words or haiku
and syllable counting
Written out stanzas
of how we are feeling
Even an orange
that someone is peeling
Riding a horse
or just crossing a river
Feathers and leaves
and all things that do quiver
So many thoughts
I have found that are waiting
Here on this site
there is no hesitating
To all the poets
with pens always bleeding
Thank you so much
for the poems I’m reading
For all of you
that I get to call friend
Here is a poem for you
I have penned
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
I imagine you to be a quiet person.
The socially awkward one, the one who likes the thought of being thought of as a thoughtful person, but one who ends up blurting out something irreversibly stupid.
I imagine you to be romantic, believer of true love. One who dreams of kisses under pink skies.
I imagine you to be intriguing and somehow delicate; like a cute little bird that needs to be observed from far.
I imagine you to be private, one who locks up not only his words, but emotions inside pages that are shoved and buried inside the depths of your heart.
I imagine you to be wearied by life, thinking about the future while you stir coffee.
Or maybe how I imagine you just reflects me.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
I was born January 30th, which might explain my stares that are as cold as a winter night. People assume that since I am five foot eight, I should be intimidating although I'm the furthest from it.
You see, I have this vice where I chew off my fingernails when I get nervous. I suppose it's because I've somehow convinced myself that if my fingernails become minimized, my anxiety would too.
I know it sounds absurd but I enjoy laughing really hard at poorly composed jokes for absolutely no good reason. And, although I don't allow myself to cry as often as I should, it reminds me that I've still got fixing to do.
My mind works like a treadmill. Things are always coming back to bite me no matter how far I run.
I'm still running.
I'm still learning how to whisper.
You see, when it comes to talking about myself, I shout! I'll talk to anyone who will listen. However, even though I seem to open up easily, I have a fear of people getting close enough to hear my heartbeat.
I have this odd fascination with nature. I assume it's because no matter how persistent I am, the trees never argue back. I don't like being alone but when it's just me around the flowers blooming, the wind blowing, and the bees buzzing, I can feel my heart growing fonder.
I've never liked the idea of the military but I have this purple heart. I got it from beating myself up over things I have no control over.
Hi, my name is Emily and I'm still trying to figure myself out.
My hobbies include over-thinking until I give myself a migraine, blurting out my life story, and trying to convince my mind that my heart is worth listening to.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
Your mouth struggles, mind grasping at sounds to make words.
Blurting out nonsensical madness.
Your eyes scream out desperately.
I wish I knew what to say
To reach you.
Apr 17, 2022
Apr 17, 2022 at 6:01 PM UTC
A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus
no one
not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)
doesn’t have their face planted on a screen
most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet
i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen
you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid
your think all lives matter especially mine
who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon
whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness
the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman
who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?
and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing
And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?
but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
The elderly man sat reminiscing over his life
now unable to walk far.
Breathing in oxygen through a nasal tube
he knew it wouldn't be long.
Shortly after in his sleep he quietly passed
at his funeral the truth masked!
Outwardly thought of as a charming man
inoffensive and kindly.
Nobody knew he had once been in prison
for an unsolved ******
Evidence against him they tried to seek
but it was too weak!
For all those years he had kept his secret
the body was never found!
They knew he had committed the crime
but they had no proof!
He had put it in the large leather chair
nobody guessed it was there!
Playing on his mind sitting with the victim
who was not at rest.
And in the end hounded him to his death
as in the chair it still laid!
Before long the furniture had to be sold
the dark secret still untold.
To the furniture auction the chair was taken
there a young woman was thrilled.
A real brown leather chair for sixty pound
what a bargain she thought.
Always wanted one of these she shouted
of this none doubted.
So pleased when it arrived at her new flat
it did look out of place.
Keen to show her boyfriend the purchase
he was on his way.
As she smelt the leathers strong scent
it made her content.
Sitting in the plush chair she felt important
for a short while.
A sick feeling filled her retching throat
through blurry eyes!
There a man stood struggling to her feet
managing to retreat.
Blurting out what had happened to her friend
together they returned.
Nothing was there on the chair saw a tear
pulling it a body part fell out!
Soon the police arrived to the address
to clear up the mess!
The chair for evidence was soon removed
the case against the old man proved!
The Foureyed Poet.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
Can't tell if it’s my vision blurring or my head is vibrating from the music I'm blurting.
I just can't hear my thoughts over the bars he spits and the bars I swallowed.
Things seem much better now that my head feels hollow.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
They say that honesty is the best policy.
Be assertive.
Say what you really think.
“I feel hurt by what you just said….”
Let The Truth be out.
I try my best on this…
Though maybe I’m ready
For another Assertiveness Course.
But sometimes the truth seems too hard to give.
“Do I look all right in this?
No you look a mess”!!!
MMM No.
“You always look great, love”…
To tell a Mum she has lost a child –
Oh my.
I know some who lie through their back teeth
And even believe their own lies.
Annoying indeed.
But then again I cannot help myself
From sugar-coating the truth
With little white lies
Or simply keeping quiet.
Economical with the truth
To keep the peace.
For sometimes people make me feel naïve
For blurting out
What others will not utter.
And the PC brigade are always
On my case.
Mum brought me up to say
What people like to hear:
To fit in and
“Be normal”.
To be approved.
Always have the right coloured door
And keep up with the Joneses.
So the rights of this
Are obscured by mists.
And all I seek
Is some happy
Middle ground.
Paul Butters
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
One day I will say it
Not because I will only feel it at that very moment
But because it's something I have so passionately been feeling since I met you that I can not go another day without blurting out.
I don't need to tell you, you know by the way I look at you, lie next to you, laugh with you, trust and confide in you.
One day I will say it
Not because I feel it at that very moment
But because I have always loved you.
I love you
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
Somehow
I ended up
With ink on my skin
Blue in my hair
Scrapes up my arms and down my legs
Blurting obscure quotes
My eyes painted black
My smile real
Authenticity at its finest
A diploma on my wall
At last
Somehow
I ended it
Strong
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
Spare me some change hear me again. Loosen the grips. Find the suite that looks best. Set my mind at ease.
Or at least give me wits. Like to hear your wisdom. This world i was given. I know was created. So show me a reason. If only three wishes. I would spread out the dishes. Giving me room to talk to you. In this way i commute with my genie. Blurting out my few requests. I would think over. Which would give the earth rest. And for the others I would discuss each ones benefits. Till I land upon the one that fits me best. If such a time as this. I would choose to change what i have seen. Rotating around this ongoing cycle. My third statement. Was of great value. I compalined to the genie. Saying why do people die. Why cant we go back in time and relive our life. As he rose higher than my stove. He replied with a sigh. The true question you should be asking, How have you chosen to live it. And with that the genie floated out into the dark streets outside.
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
When replaying conversations you had and words she had said start to make you smile like you just heard that your favorite ice cream shop brought back a limited flavor.
That's when you know.
When you start checking your phone, hoping that she might've accidentally sent something and apologizing for it, planning how you'd casually say 'it's okay' when you'd stop yourself from blurting "I've been waiting for you to say something."
That's when you know.
When a simple "I like your smile." makes you feel lightheaded because of how hard you try to thank her sounding oh so casual while your face would get oh so red.
When you wake up realizing that you've started to sleep text her.
That's when you know.
When you find yourself wondering what she thinks about you.
What she thinks about abortions.
What she thinks about marriage.
Premarital ***
***
What she'd think about ***
..With you
When you find yourself wondering how her hands would feel going down your bare back
If her whispers in your ear would make your back arch
If your ears would ever let go of the sound of her kissing you
If her kisses would be gentle
Or if they'd leave purple marks over your body
When you wouldn't mind either or.
That's when you know.
When you find yourself wondering if she had thought about you too.
When you know that if she asked, you'd try letting go of the things that you've held on to for so long.
That's when you know.
When she's been in your head for over ten minutes.
That's when you know.
You're ******
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
I've been told
to walk soflty and
carry a large stick,
so i tread among the silent,
blurting out
with a piece of asphalt
in my hands.
I like to keep them guessing.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 7:43 PM UTC
we can't sing so much, but alive we deaden somber with aplomb.
we are remorse and ripe plums. tap roots fastened to air kisses and laudanum.
we congeal in our own ' thud '. a slow bomb coughing the alphabet's are off -
with our high noon lows; depleted aloft. we are One -
in the chamber of succinct
loss.
we carry on. drudging up the hillocks of our Pandemonious Love.
blurting the wrong devout; conjoined to the rip in our seamless joust
adjusting the rudiments of our lathe of fresh hell; to accommodate the actual constant
of our hateful esteem. the very same accursed of our mutual louse...
doubting the excellent **** of our divine Without.
we covet the reign seeds
of Love's Drought.
and as plausible honey
we comb tangles
into sunrays
out loud.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
There was a time I hadn't met eyes with you.
Starry it was before and simply galaxies after.
You begin to realize love is a home, no longer a word or two syllables.
The shy kiss, the blurting of I love you.
Being the voice when the other cannot speak.
Tears & sobs catching at the hinges of swollen throats when you both know it is time to let go.
And let go as we may, but I'll hold on to what we have made.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
“I write blurt by blurt, edit once, then post and send it out like a puppy”
that is learning to walk, impossible to walk straightly,
thank gawd for walls and laundry baskets and single sneakers
that obstacle us into trouble, opportunities always a near
but never fatal crashing,
and our whisking swishing tail is an ever
countervailing, counterbalancing
waving gesture of
“oops,
there we one goes from nearly, nearer, almost another
nearest disaster
*that is the style of substance of how I write
headlong smashing, bouncing off walls,
regrouping spindly words into a balletic
clown show,
startling off in a new and unforeseen direction,
scrambling energy like three sunny side up eggs,
whistling and crackling and popping,
god, this writing stuff is **** tiring,
so much easier to respose,
chew there upon,
selectfully taste and spit~select
a single word,
picking the appropriate apropos,
taking a nap in between,
then
recommencing
blurting
blurts
of escapading words
that tumble out,
falling all around,
requiring reassembly like
an impossible-to-put-together
new toy,
anyway,
here for you to play with
for your sensory pleasure
is my latest greatest
blurt,
which rhymes with
dessert,
which I will imbibe
after eating all my*
vegetables.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 4:47 PM UTC
It’s a wrap like turban
i’m from a city, it’s urban
******* rushing to see me like it’s urgent
i need a definition for insurgent
so i can insert it into this freestyle to keep it going like surgeons
i hate to be washed up, detergent
before i even finish lyrically purging
i know right now you’re probably hissing and cursing
but later you’ll be shouting encouraging words,
i spit until i’m submerged and
holding my breath til my lungs hurting
i apologize for any inadvertence
don’t even know for certain
what i’ll be blurting next
going off the top like machetes to necks
May i add,
Don’t make me an accessory
just ‘cause you’ll **** for accessories that you see in ads
you’re the opposite of right, hypotenuse
yeah, 'you’re next', bring it, i will tighten noose
This is a freewritten, just going with the flow
keep punching keys until i can no longer scroll
don't know how to end this, so i'm just gonna go
and say farewell
drink more Ale and inhale till i begin to ail
if you're gonna die anyway, minus well
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC