"boringly" poems
Speak loud
then keep quiet
be humbly proud
at the peaceful riot
shoot to live
then sadly play
selfishly give
then haughtily stay
you're boringly fun
and anxiously still
not ready but done
as you bandage you ****
so strangely normal
and terribly good
just dirt poor formal
on plastic wood
so mic your meal
then call a cab
pop a pill
conceal the scab
your heels are old
your dress is new
your eyes are cold
your friends are few
you've seen it all
but know it's true
you've raised a wall
so they can't see you
for what it's worth
you're not to blame
to death from birth
it's life's false claim
©2012 Lyn
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
I love the way you stare at me blankly from behind your coffee.
You take slow, painstaking sips...
It suggests exciting ***
I love the way you sensuously lick your lips,
every time you put the cup down.
I love the way you're not flirting with me.
I love that you tell me your **** looks amazing in those leggings.
I know.
I love the way you say my name-
distantly,
boringly,
disinterestedly.
Your mind a million miles away, on another man-
You tell me how nice his **** is.
I smirk and tell you I'm glad that we're friends.
You're a special kind of torture.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
the woman disregards
what's best for me,
( See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/bus-poems-victuals-victim/ )
gives me with kind regard,
what's best for me,
for this is the kindness
that hallmarks
the long lasting kind
bring before your childlike tap tap attention wains,
a treatise on leftover chicken wings
and other such nonsensical
finger food additions,
purposed
to inspire, to find innovation,
in expressing, reclaiming and newly exclaiming
that miscreant four letter word
that appears in the other 99% of les ecrivants
(See the notes)
in some poem writ recent,
pontificated that the
most overused three words,
yes, those abused three,
degraded by overuse,
losing their poetic juice
thru constant repetition,
being nearly
boringly indecent,
even when
boldly italicized,
the impact upon the reader
is in the realm of
"oh yeah, that's nice for you"
Better to be best in show,
deduce how,
to demonstrate
rather than insistently remonstrate,
new ways every day
to say
chicken wings means..
you know what...
Some get tea and oranges,
others get cherished
when our repast is twice recast,
when she feeds me leftover
chicken wings,
both kinds,
spiced and honey just like
l....e should be
do you know why
Silly
has two L's?
Correct.
for the run lies therein,
kissing knuckles when unexpected,
********** the exhausted, tucking them in,
going out for ice cream in the midst of a
polar vortex,
recording the game to watch later,
so her downtown abbey guys,
she can be watching at the
proper English
place and time,
and celebrating life the next day
with leftover chicken wings
and other heartfelt,
but unheart healthy food additions
that folks, is how you writ a poem in deed,
that will be returned to you sevenfold in reads,
when you want to explain how,
you can, truly, sigh,
you know, love another...
with sinful, leftover chicken wings
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
North cornered near the glass ain't gonna' last
Cause the money is running out
It's running out fast
Nickel and dimed' burning money burning pride
With the liquor stores all closing and mother mary praying whispering
"Sarah, sarah, sarah..."
No names in these streets empty touched' defeat
The meat is getting angrier surlier burlier
The heat is getting heavier breathier and touchier
Blankets burn in the Connecticut sun mother mouths something
But I can't make it out
With these posters on these white walls falling for their own droll
Committed to the picnic that is not life at all
Putrid in these notes that sail through the air never fail
With the heart that once was held
By a women that I thought I'd take the time to know
But then the winds came with the side ways rain
All that pain that I couldn't bare or understand to stay
There was the window washing maniacs pinching pennies
Letting go of their soul for another side dish and entree of dough
Ploughing through their TV screens which falls through their skin like
Love used to do but in the blue hue there was nothing
They could bear to do
Bear man breaks open the skin flecked electro heart machine
Shocking every last one of us past the point of divinity
Already through the heart and mind and limb of man
Into the skin and the blood and the beating eye lids
Of a brother I never had, that man named CID
Jesus named me no name so I wander wherever my feet may carry
Never had no religion only long lesions through the seasons
Cut wound bleed break breakfast dinner bird
There was a glint in the sun
The way she gripped and held Her sword
Graining through pages of past history ***********
Seeing visions of kaleidoscope faker ***** with their blisters
Gripping their panoramic sisters
Beauty in the eye of the hair that twists
In the mid-west chilling winds of the whisp
Forests burning boringly gripping the last hope of
Mother murdering herself just to stay alive
In a stride of elegance tides of benevolence
Roaring rewind curb side b-lines
And a mix-tape that spins and spins and spins
But plays nothing
No nothing
At all
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
He’s only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter
waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress
serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at
the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,
but it doesn’t come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows
her with his eyes as she walks
to a table alone. She looks like a
girl Modigliani would have painted.
She looks at her watch and then
around the room of the cafe.
She crosses her legs, one over
the other, thigh revealed. He sips
his latte. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand. Bad habit, mother
would have slapped his hand as a
child once. The waitress delivers
the woman’s coffee; he notes the
waitress’s fine behind, the hands
serving, the legs touching together.
Then she's gone. Just the woman
in the white hat to study. The way
she lifts the small white cup to her
mouth, her fingers holding delicately,
as if afraid to break. Get a life Brody
would say if he were there. But he’s not;
he’s away with that girl from the office,
having a lay. The woman in the hat
stares at him, her eyes devour, her lips
part like legs before *** She looks boringly
away. He sips more latte. He doesn’t like
her white hat or black dress anyway.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
All these whinging intellectual poetic wankers,
scribbling Conditional Love "poems"that boringly
lament why they are such obvious failures
at the game of life and self realisation.
Spewing out weasel words of poetic hypocracy while
wrapped in navel gazing infantile emotions.
Writing degenerate untruthful words about a love
they'll never know or never have known,
as if unconditional love can be bought
at the local Walmart.
Voluntarily assisting the machinations of mind and groupmind,
since their birth into a lifetime of Conditioned Identity,
in the servitude of the Amerikan Oligarchy .
Strings of meaningless associated words,
lines of lies about life and love that are ever popular with "poets".
Starting with every one of the so-called "holy" books
from millennia past--calling for suicide bombers
and child killers to strut the world stage
spewing religious racism and sexism like enlightened beings..
After all words have NO SHAME
nor have poets..
Sin Verguensa.
Words have NO GUILT
nor have poets.
Words have NO EMBARASSMENT
nor have poets.
You cannot hide behind your lies from me.
I see you--I have nous.
Your beard is transparent.
Your unceasing lies deny to others information
to which they are entitled,
"poets" are the worst LIARS of all,
so easily spottable .
Read these pages--see for yourself,
through my eyes .
See the silly shit-fed children of the Amerikan Oligarchy,
wrapped in spangles and colours --posturing like super-heroes.
Vomiting verbal diahorea in lifes gutters,
appealing for just one more chance
to play at love and humiliation.
People with low IQs and lower morals
pretending ,as always, to be mature and human,
characters moulded like products of talk show hosts .
No integrity.
No truthfulness.
No honour.
No decency.
No morals except those learned from Readers Digest.
No to these escapees from the gallows of decency,
torture instruments dangling round their necks,
their prophet validated by being nailed and denied.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Let us leave for foreign places
Away from this city of boringly beautiful faces
For ash filled cobbled stone streets
Fields of blooded roses and golden wheat
Castles cemented in antiquity
Crumbling walls of barren cities
Abandoned cathedrals of a bygone era
Smoke filled bordello backrooms with mirrors smudged by mascara
Let us leave before the hours turn late
And I have wasted my life awaiting fate
But I grow old
And warm dreams turn cold
How stunning you look tonight
How badly I want to tell you these words I write
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
******* I really love having them,
I have no trouble raving about them
And have categorized them accordingly.
Just a few have ever affected me boringly.
But mostly they were those I did alone.
Still I managed to get into the right zone,
Later, if I didn’t like the outcome of the game
I really only had nobody but myself to blame.
But it is always better when there are two
Then some cuddling and kissing when through
And if there seems more we want to do
We can start it up all over again, anew.
Of course if an ****** is the entire focus
We may not prefer a repeat with the both of us.
Still, it's possibly good to strongly suggest
A another college try turns out the best.
Who can deny that great feeling one has
When the activity changes from waltz to jazz
And two people manage to forget everything
And let the muscles and the juices sing;
Take our minds gratefully to another place
A blissful, mindless, animal kind of space,
Appreciation of what it means to be a beast
And be glad for that moment then, at least.
Those who tell the young kids to beware
And do their well-meaning best to scare
The young from being what they really are
Are following a teaching that is bizarre
When it tells you some crap about god
Thinking *** is something sick and odd.
People should get on with what they need.
The Puritans were wrong, so pay no heed.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 6:27 PM UTC
Perspectives are bells,
Clanging and clashing,
They ring with different tones
Like those people that yell.
Some people have silver bells,
Those tinkling, happy bells.
Others have grand, golden bells,
All majestic and grateful.
However, some have brass bells,
They shriek at everything in sight.
More boringly, those with iron bells,
Who don't give a crap to anything in sight.
So after reading this,
Don't pick up iron or brass bells.
Get golden, or even silver
bells, as they make the world
Feel a lot better.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
Your face is asymetrical in a way that makes me love nature.
Your voice is light and charming.
Full of care, sensitivity, and fun.
It tells me not to tell you again.
When you smile, I know you're tired of hearing.
Maybe you're not as happy as you could be,
But you're content enough where you are.
The sympathy in your eyes says that you remember.
Keep it to yourself. I know, I know, I know.
Don't remind me. Don't keep hurting yourself.
Move on. Please. It'll never be you.
Yes: when you sip your tea, I hear you think.
I bite my tongue.
I'll be quiet. I'll keep it light and unimportant.
I don't need to tell you how badly I care for you.
It would only be selfishness, and you feel guilty enough.
So instead of writing loveletters,
I devise the most boringly cliche poems.
And when I find your photo, the fantasies fill my head.
And at the end, I stare up at you from the water.
And I can't breathe.
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 8:39 PM UTC
The siren.
Inviting,
Promising.
Ensuring happiness.
Guaranteeing joy.
Not until she traps you do you wish escape.
Not from what she promised, but from the pain she brought you.
But you've made a home for yourself here.
You've gotten comfortable in the habits she's given you.
But every time she comes to visit, something in your gut screams at you to escape.
No, literally. Your gut. Your stomach. Your intestines.
Your entire body becomes exhausted from chasing her promises.
Now, you've forgotten who you were before she trapped you.
You try and try for what feels like years to escape.
And finally you succeed.
You've successfully escaped the place you call home.
After time and time of being lured back to home, I've come to learn this sirens name.
She is what she does to people. To me.
Forces me to control what I eat.
Makes me second guess myself.
Track everything I eat and drink.
Make me guilty for eating something she doesn't like.
I won't bore you with more boringly grim details, just know,
She has sisters.
Please, don't make the mistake of trusting their promises.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 12:13 AM UTC
I’d rather be wonderfully wicked
And frightfully fascinating
Than be piously perfect
And dreadfully dull
I could be reliably righteous
And boringly bland
But why? when I’m daringly devious
And curiously captivating
To be goodly godly
Or delightfully devilish
How about moaning monotony
To my sensuous ****
Never curiously kind
Without poorly plain
Always sweetly sinister
And always attractive
To be good, one must
Want to be good
But why be good
When you can be bad?
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
These four boringly brilliant walls have kept me safe
The thoughts have come through the cracks in the ceilling
But it was always these four walls
I'm feeling small again
The paint had started to chip off when I began highschool
And the window lets all the words get back into my head
Its really hard to spend hours in bed just thinking
My tears seem to be the foundation of this very room
Its funny how hard I try to get out with the simply bland door
I always shrink back into this pitifull room
And the dust gathered in the corners is disgusting
All my problems are written on the hallow walls
For every little moment that granted me the right to hide
For every second my headaches got worse
For all the big adventures I was not willing to touch
There was always these four walls and me
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
"Its just a room."
She scribbles her secrets on the walls
And piles up her whinings on the floor
"Its off limits."
But somehow he always finds a way in
Every **** time
"Nothing much to see here."
But he doesn't leave
No matter how boringly stuffed it gets
"Its not even real."
But with the two of them in there
It feels more real than reality itself.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
I can't stop writing, maybe I shouldn't
I hope the words won't cease to flow
Many thoughts spilling out in an endless flood
Maybe this is the real Noah's arc
Perhaps the flood was god never ending words and the animals were Noah's feelings he wanted to keep concealed in the arc of his mind
Perhaps like god my words are water and are cleansing
After I spill what I need to maybe I'll be fresh, reborn
I never did read the bible though
Church sermons made me feel boringly proper
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
sometimes i get so jealous of people with male bodies.
i look at them and they’re dressed boringly or they chuck it about like it’s nothing and i think
i could do such great things if i had a body like yours!
if i had a body like yours i would be so happy and confident and i would find a way to conjure up great things with it!
and you don’t know how much i long and pray and yearn for a body like yours.
i know there are people who want a body like mine, although it’s hard to imagine anyone ever wanting this.
i wish there was a way we could swap.
Jan 21, 2021
Jan 21, 2021 at 8:49 AM UTC
I believe happiness lives in Blood.
Whether our own, or that of others is the question.
I remember when I first realized it;
You were the reason I was unhappy.
The shattered vase recognizing the hammer that destroyed it.
The broken heart spotting the surgeon who haphazardly carved it from its home.
I remember realizing that my happiness was stolen and by none other than you,
And that if I wanted to be happy once again, I had to free my happiness from your blood.
But what's the fun in ****** when it's so easily accomplished?
I decided to destroy you.
To make you regret being born just as I had;
To make you taste the saltiness of your own sweat and tears
As you sat in a pile of ash you once called your beloved and cherished sanctuary
Was my idea of "salvation".
I dismantled you, and your family's life.
I disrupted the dismal peace you all so boringly accepted as your lives
And by stirring the waters, I brought out the worst in all.
The pestilence grew within your home
And quickly leaped from your family
Onto mine.
Suddenly, the plan backfired.
You steered into the chasm of life that I spent years mapping,
And all I had to do was whisper in your ear and sew doubt into your skull.
And yet,
This backfire;
This single moment of social dissonance,
Reshaped the earth we both stood on.
The dark corners I once knew became twisted and corrupt copies.
My mind became a new place to explore and learn about.
I just wish the last image to bless my genesis
Had been of you
Swinging gracefully, and peacefully
From your neck.
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 12:08 PM UTC
Memory: The Reliable & The Unreliable
Echos of a past that roll around
And called to mind from deepest ground
Behind the mind…
Ambiguous or accurate -
Can you trust that what you bring to view
Is true?
Age three to eight…early or late?
What how and when do you recall the then?
When does cementing start? ,
How much and what was taking part?
Did you see it because you must?
How much is there, is there to trust?
We know that those who witness
Accidents and tragedies,
Give testimonies contradictory -
Eyes, brown, no, green,
Height, tall, no teeny,
Fat, round, thin, face.
When and what took place - erased.
Often spoken, joke invoked, the anecdote
Snoringly or boringly jacked up:
Do we know that we repeat?
All the time collecting, re-connecting;
Predilections and renditions
Gathering and bathing; simply put, projecting -
Putting self onto the world -
Of change, of never-stops,
Of dreams, of ‘props’
Which being built to fool are worldly tools.
Memories and memorize.
Words that though alike in size,
Words containing wish and prize,
Faculties essential to our mental health,
The endless wealth of whats and whys.
Final question:
Do you, do you not -
Knowing well that times do rot,
Trust in memory and memories,
Knowing that each one is but
Prioritised interpretation, information?
I do not, but live the knots that days present
Giving each minute to a past.
Memory, The Reliable & The Unreliable 2.5.2021 Nature of & In Reality;Arlene Never Corwin
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 5:15 PM UTC
If life is like a grand piano,
Make me up a melody
With keys both white and black;
Strike notes that play on heart strings,
With joyful rifts that send me souring,
And broken chords that pull me back.
And if life is like a grand piano,
I'll stand below and watch it sway;
Winched out a tenth story window;
The wire begins to thin and fray.
I want that grand piano of life
To answer gravity's beckoning call,
In all it's cartoon-dramatics;
Let it tip, then let it fall.
I want every high and every low;
I want moonlit passions
And morning coffees;
I want screaming matches
And baby scans;
I want passport stamps
And phone calls home;
I want celebrations
And hospital visits.
I want blood;
I want cuddles in the kitchen;
I want sweat;
I want kisses in the rain;
I want tears;
I want lighting strikes and sunrises;
I want scars, stories and tax returns;
I want lies, love and mortgages;
I want to be scared.
I want broken promises met with ''I'm sorry''s;
I want drunken phone-call serenades at 3am,
And slurred ''I love you''s I only half believe;
I want forehead kisses before driving to work;
I want heartbreak.
I want to say ''I love you'' and mean it.
I want to say ''I hate you'' and mean it.
I want to speak at my bestfriend's wedding and ***** it up;
I want to hold my sister's hand when she gives birth;
I want to watch my brother strum guitar on stage;
And then file for a messy divorce as my children finish school.
I want to grow old and wrinkle in whichever way this path has planned.
When I'm ready for it all,
I want life to be boringly brilliant,
And beautifully broken,
And painfully unplanned.
I want to live this life until I'm full and my bones crack.
So when that straining wire does snap -
Just let that grand piano fall;
I'll stand below and won't move a step,
Because in this life I want it all.
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
am i boring or boringly cliche in the things i find exciting
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
In some point of your life,
Which has been pain of your living.
It can be at any point of your life...
A sudden refresh of all yoursef,
Pops up as a regular coincidence.
Suddenly, all the weight of painful
Memories, thoughts, feelings are gone.
As well as potent satistafaction,
Becomes the field of your experience.
You feel like you are returned to
First home of humans, Garden of Eden.
Even you are looking to the
Boringly plains of detesting
White walls of your home
Or in the middle of the tedious lesson.
You feel like you are in the heaven.
Vast skies of azure,
Vast plains of shamrock.
Or the forest of complex Red pine...
Between the leaves a light ball shines.
It feels like a dream,
But concentration to atmosphere is
So high that it is
More factual than a dream.
Purple azure skies,
Candy red sun sets as a single god,
In rainbow of oranges and yellows.
Or you may be in the space,
Gazing thousands of
Little glittering color
In the vast darkness.
A nearby yellow star shines
As well as reveals thousands of
Spheres in vast colors,
Each of them an infinite heaven
With infinite liveliness.
Than you realize that all pain is gone.
You are refreshed, calm, in pleasure
In the highest forms.
Than you also realize that,
All of these is just a dream.
Imagined stuff being creation of you.
Even you attempt to leave
Beacuse of its fakeness,
You find the hardship in leaving.
Because it is the music
You are dying for hearing it.
Know that it doesn't come form
Your cushiony headphones.
Remember, that's the thing
You are striving for.
The complete well being of
All yourself, all your senses!
But the case is
We have big flows of energy
In our complex pathways of
Neural circuits and spiritual fields,
Avoiding the strenght of good
To hold us in good.
Because we laboured ourselves to
Live painful and weak lives
Just sake of survival.
So our brains are more able to
Suffer than satistfy,
More capable to experience and be
Bad rather than good.
What's avoiding this is the
Unconditional stabilization of
The experience of the good.
Owingly,
Even when the whole world is hellish;
You are the shine of the heaven,
Refreshing heights of elegance, content
Than you ask, how to do this.
I say; become that wholly,
Unconditionally,
Without any negative and bad.
If you still ask the same question,
Follow me! Just follow me!
Continuously, unconditionally!
This is all you need.
As the result, you will feel the
Depths of positive flow of love,
Heights of infinite continuous pleasure,
Taste of sweetest sweet without sweet.
In all of your life, unconditionally.
Even when everything is
Going painfully, badly, wrongly.
I call it the nectar!
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 2:39 AM UTC
Why is it that
the foliage of the trees,
with their multi-faceted
shapes
and multi-coloured
hues,
that mask my bedroom windows
from the doubtless uninterested gaze
of neighbours,
endure for eight months of the year
and are absent for four,
and yet those eight fleet by
while the following four
persist so boringly long?
Is there a parallel
with my own life?
Each day is boringly long,
and yet
the preceding eighty-six years
seem to have vanished in
the blinking of an eye.
And those past boring days
seem also to have
disappeared
without a ripple to disturb
the historical calendar
that preceded them.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
Yiska lit up
a cigarette;
eyed the Indian woman
sitting on the opposite sofa
who moved beads
on string,
muttering words
in her own tongue.
Next to her sat
the the Glaswegian,
stoney eyed,
inhaling deep,
gazing at the beads
and fingers
moving them along,
muttering four-letter
obscenities just
under her breath.
Benedict sat
next to Yiska
watching smoke
from his cigarette
rise in twirls
above his head.
Yiska sat with him
at dawn,
both alone,
both smoking,
her head
on his shoulder,
his hand on her thigh,
both boringly
playing I-spy.
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 12:22 PM UTC