"bothering" poems
for seven years i believed that i had no right to say
that i had been abused because it wasn't physical,
like my friend who was beat by her drunk father on
a daily basis.
my abuse was only on an emotional, psychological scale
and while sometimes his hand slipped or gripped too tight on me,
i honestly wouldn't count it as abuse.
recently i began reading into this and while it's not
as talked about as physical or ****** abuse it still counts
and it carries over as children grow up from these experiences.
even experiences that i didn't think counted as emotional abuse,
from times when i was far younger than just a teenager.
the abuse i've dealt with hasn't made me any stronger than i was,
it's made me the exact opposite;
instead of being the person i was before, bright and optimistic,
i'm apologizing constantly for things i don't need to and
second guessing myself and others intentions.
constantly i wonder if i'm bothering someone,
am i being too much of myself? am i allowed to speak?
does my opinion matter? is it all right to assert myself?
after being told for three years that i don't matter,
and there is no point of me for existing and that
it's no wonder i don't have any friends,
i'm trying to break myself out of the box i've placed myself in
and it's so **** hard.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
Lets take the day off and chill out, not stressing soaking up the lords blessings, let's go out tonight enjoy a nice meal unwrap ourselves expose our fun side peel the layers off, relax by a waterfront getting high off the emotions of us, watch fireworks toast a glass of strawberry and cream champagne to celebrate nothing bothering us
Just a night off lets communicate with our bodys flirting with the slightest touch temptation not asking for much, the night is still young so juvnille, let's make it worthwhile no dollar amount a value deal of us just enjoying us do wild stuff like we don't now how to behave ourselves, radiate is our smile viberations of our laughter makes the valley's of our heart shake, sweet lovers a savory taste
Take the time to enjoy us we been working so much not taking breaks convicted to the grind like tired slaves, not tonight it's date night we haven't had this feeling for a while now, let's takeoff day cater to each other feed both of us grapes do you want to split a cheesesteak?, nothing much just you and us it's date night take the load off
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
Pants hang from my tree;
so please knock —
before bothering me.
I'm not homeless.
The park is my shelter
The grass, my bed.
The wind, my comforter
and sunny California,
my adopted mother.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
I don’t have a problem with saying too little, you don’t have to carve inspiration into a health room desk or vandalize a bathroom stall to get me to tell him how I feel. I have a problem with acting as if it’s four a.m. all day long and forgetting that you don’t need to know about my every mood swing: my Sunday highs and Tuesdays lows and Thursday nothings. I think my biggest fault is bothering you to tell me all the thoughts that have yet to cross your mind (and maybe wishing they had.) I want you to want to know everything I feel at any given moment: what I thought of this evening’s sunset and how long it took me to fall asleep last night and why track two of my favorite album makes me feel like I’m in a dream. I want you to want me to know why you painted your bedroom walls yellow and how often you floss your teeth and which day of the week you feel happiest on. But most of all, I want to know everything you feel, even before you’ve felt it.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
I spend so many nights starring up from my bed.
Gazing upon the plastic glow in the dark stars.
Vision blurs as I long to be staring at the real thing.
Or maybe- it's not so much that I want to see them.
Maybe it's I want to be one- I want to be a star.
I want to be looked for- to be wanted so badly that people travel miles just to get far enough away to see me properly. What a different feeling, to be wanted. To feel so loved and cherished. That's all I've ever wanted, I want to feel noticed. I want to feel loved. I want to feel like I'm worth something. I don't just want to be wanted. I want to be wanted by you. So tell me, will you travel away from it all to see me? Will you miss me when you have to return to civilization? No.. No you will simply stay where you are- not bothering to take a chance on something you can't see. But why would you? So many shine brighter than me..
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
And now there would come a time
a swift sharp clock on the bed
Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells
Like an angry little arm
Charming if not for the alarm
And everyday I slap the face of it
Like an unwanted *****
And she is silenced
Quick unlike
Said chick
But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry
Nor cool or heat
There's nothing bothering me
Time just ticks off and I laugh at it
But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men
And yet I am not called upon them
Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts
No masterman
who failing to raise his hand
Clams up
With such poor artwork
Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan
Now In San Francisco
Where the alley streets stink of ***
And the European facades are just that
Crumbling
Poopy
And full of ****
And what yet are they dreaming to be?
The church that survived fire
Great conflagration
God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that,
Now did he?
He's a water-sign
Dolt
And water only jolts your mind
When it scatters true light,
Ain't that right?
But it's all the same
Just different hues
And the news
Isn't new
Just Blaring and yelling
And speeding television crews
Riding their stories
Up and down the many stories
Trying to build a city of angels
On a bituminous hill
Shills
No life skills
And I walk the city streets with a ugly old leather
Brief
Casing the joints and rolling my own
Unhappy and alone
Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet
And he has no road
While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air
Going god knows where
Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball
Perpetually trapped in the machine
How bout Nippon
Or Hangujin
Or Han Chinese
Or Berlin
Anywhere but when
A little ways along the state
Of "in"
All these strange things
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Blue Monday
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.
Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.
You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.
Monday is the first of the week,
and I think of you all week.
I beg Monday not to come
so that I will not think of you
all week.
You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my ******* the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;
there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.
Love passed me in a blue business suit
and fedora.
His glass cane, hollow and filled with
sharks and whales ...
He wore black
patent leather shoes
and had a mustache. His hair was so black
it was almost blue.
“Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Mr. Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street
Love passed me on the street in a blue
business suit. He was a banker
I could tell.
So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.
If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
I can't sleep
The horrible news is bothering me
My fellow Filipinos in Marawi
Are being attacked by Maute Group/ISIS
They are burning down the place
The houses, the hospitals, the churches
And if you can't prove that you are a Muslim
They'll take you as a hostage
Those who don't wear hijabs "are taken care of"
Horrible, really horrible
My fellow filipinos there are suffering
Muslims and non-muslims
It's not supposed to be about religion
It's supose to be being people, human
It's suppose to be "humanity"
*"Save me from people of the world" Psalm 17:14
It's horrible, really horrible. How can these people be so cruel?? It's really scary, really scary*
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
I'm so sorry.
For avoiding you,
Ignoring you.
Feeling jealous
When you talk to other girls.
Yet not bothering
To make the first move.
When I do,
I'm sorry
If I appear clingy.
I'm not good enough for you.
But I wonder,
Does all this matter to you?
Sorry, for disturbing you.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
I know you probably won’t be able to read this bit of my soul, but I just wanted to say that up until now, I’ve crossed an uncountable number of lines. To other people, it may seem like I make a big deal out of minuscule things, but as a human, I’ve made many, many mistakes..but, I’m not one to forgive myself. I’m the kind who fits herself into the stereotypes ones boxed into.
I’m the “nerd”, “the mute”; “quiet kid”, “the hopeless romantic”, and every other category they box me into. I don’t fight back. I don’t look them in the eye. I just sit there with my head drooped, silently wishing to go by unnoticed, because the truth is..I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what they might say back. I’m afraid of messing up, I’m afraid, I’m afraid, I’m afraid. But most of all..I’m afraid of their words. I’m afraid of their words because what they might say back is unknown. By the time I wait, the words just melt underneath my tongue, and all that’s left is the uncertainty.
Through my experiences, I learned that I don’t need to be afraid. I learned that people can be harsh sometimes, but it’s not my fault. There’s nothing wrong with me. The only person who was wrong, was the person who thought they had power over me. The power to change my mind, to make me think that I’m not worth it. That I’m not worth it..?
Then came these seven angels..
They taught me to love myself, little by little, everyday. My world turned right side up, and there was nothing left to lose. Back before then, I remember not bothering to look both ways before crossing the street, because I thought, there was no good reason to live. I was wrong. I slowly started to realize my worth, I wasn’t what people said I was, because the only definition they were giving, was a reflection of themselves. I mean sure not everything was perfect from then on since, but I still continued to love myself because of these seven men from South Korea who had such an impact on me, that I could never forget.
From then on, I was the girl who didn’t let labels stop her from being her own self, I was the girl who kicked open the box of stereotypes she was stuck in for a long time. I was the girl who stopped apologizing for the things she did right. I was the girl who never stopped dreaming. But most of all..I am now the girl who’s not alone. I have these seven brave handsome looking knights and an entire “ARMY” after all.
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 10:50 PM UTC
Sun at its peak, everything outside is so bright,
but her room is giving a horrific sight.
She stands in front of mirror wearing his favorite dress.
Her reflection looks back at her, asking
"who are you?"
She touches her lips, closes her eyes.
"You're a freak and I love it. Can you be mine?"
She opens her eyes wide,
as woke up from a nightmare,
or maybe it was only a haunted memory.
But something is breaking inside.
She picks up lipstick, paints her lips red.
Looks damaged but but beautiful outside.
"I love you so much. You're the best thing happened to me. Stay with me forever. You're my life."
She walks towards the side table.
A suicide note is waiting there to get read.
Burning it with her lighter, she smiles.
"Why are you so depressed all time? What is bothering you?
Why you get this anxiety? You got me baby. Its all fine."
She turns and makes her calendar marked 6th of July.
Putting all pain behind,
she lefts a sigh of relief as if the beast,
that stalks her is duped forever.
"Why are you so possessive? I hate it.
How can you have a lot of Internet friendships but no friends in real? You gotta change yourself."
She walks through the door.
A new life is ahead her.
"No you don't have to change yourself this way. Don't be childish."
She is going down through stairs.
"There is nothing normal with you. You always exaggerate things. Sometimes I hate even myself to be with you."
Suddenly she hears a phone ring coming out of her room.
Her stomach drops.
"Things are not working out baby I'm sorry..."
She is going back to her room.
"We must get separated."
Her hands trembling, her heart making a one last wish.
"Why did you cut your wrist? I hate you even more now"
Mommy's text was there that she might get late today.
"You're a freak. Get out of my life."
She smashes her phone into mirror.
She is done with being all fine.
She is not going outside now to show the world that she is strong.
Her screams filling the room.
"I love you please come back."
But only echoes are there laughing back at her.
And here she goes
writing again a suicide note.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
AM I JUST OCD
IS THIS ONLY BOTHERING ME
SHOULDN'T POEMS HAVE A RHYME
OR AM I REALLY WRONG THIS TIME?
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
Is it wrong to want a Disney romance?
That may seem a bit silly to say,
But really now,
Who doesn't want a prince to come sing sweet melodies,
"I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream",
Like seriously,
Inside I be screaming "Marry me!"
Unfortunately, my life is not like that, at all,
I'm scrubbing floors like Cinderella cept I don't have a fairy godmother to help me off to my ball,
I am the little red headed mermaid splashing around, ******* down saltwater, glancing up at Eric,
wondering if he'll ever see me,
Yep, I'm Belle alright, reading every night,
Stuck in her dreams, hoping Gaston will quit bothering me,
Gosh! I want my beast already,
I want my star to grant my wish,
That the spell would break from true loves kiss,
But either way I'm still here, living with some dwarves cleaning up after them,
Lucky ********
Hold up, that's not a very Disney thing to say.
Either way,
Disney got it right,
We girls just want to be saved,
Well I mean, I do,
I don't know about the rest of you,
Prince Charming can you just give me back my shoe,
My heart is your's in return, I promise,
Yeah, that's me waiting, wanting, wishing like always
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
Any phone call bothers me anytime Simply because that's me anytime,anywhere,and everywhere ..... I like people to call me , but Not as they want .... Phone calls are great and wonderful ,but They should be in their accurate times .... Some people have their phone-calls for just have funny things or For just bothering others ................. A phone-call is pretty thing when A caller means it well .
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
Alone. She has no home. No where to go. Who can she trust? Mistrust. She's been betrayed. Delayed. Mistrust. Betrayed. A mistake. A trust. Him. I love you. A hug. I hope I'm not bothering you. Betrayed. Rumors. i loathe you. Disgust. I thought I could trust you. Betrayed. She's dealing. Learning. That this is life. She's feeling down. She's been deceived. A sad clown. Plowed down. Betrayed. Broken. She lost her will. Her token. Sullen. Now who can she trust?
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
It has been a tough month.
With health issues, school difficulties
and do not even mention family problems...
So there has been some triggers
and it is just been stressful.
I have been pretty depressed
and feeling very vulnerable
and really wanting to cut.
I feel really like I have to act like everything is fine
and cannot talk about the things that are bothering me
with the people who I would really just like to talk about it with.
Which kind of leaves me feeling
hurt and resentful and
not wanting to trust.
I feel like asking for help is so difficult
and you can only do it so many times
and be rejected before you just take on this attitude of fine
**I do not need your help anyway -
I do not actually need anyone's help
and I will manage perfectly fine on my own.**
Except that is not how it works, you do not manage perfectly fine.
You try harder at not feeling feelings
IRONIC
being that feelings were something you worked so hard to feel!
you start not talking about anything that even remotely bothers you,
you put a band-aid on everything you are struggling with
and act like things are OK
when in fact, on the inside,
you are screaming and wishing,
hoping that someone would hear you.
Enter more hurt and resentment
.
It is just really difficult
**I simply want to feel
heard
supported
loved.**
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
Life is too short,
In the long run,
For petty arguments and pain,
The storm feels like it will last forever,
So learn to dance in the rain.
Many people will come and go,
Enter your life just to leave,
But in the end,
God calls us all,
Don't waste your precious time to grieve.
Life and death go hand in hand,
Forever partners in crime,
Precious moments slip away,
Its all the tricks of that funny thing,
That funny thing called time.
Is this all a simple game?
If so then how do we play?
Life has no meaning,
Until you make it so,
That's why you play, grow, learn,
Waste your time then it slips away.
Life is too short,
In the long run,
For petty arguments and pain,
The storm will last for eternity,
So I'm learning to dance in the rain,
Life is but a fleeting moment,
Done and gone in the blink of an eye,
Repeating this process for centuries now,
With no-one bothering to ask,
Why?
Copyright© 2014 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Hello.
I’m toxic.
you probably don’t want to know me
i hurt everyone I love.
Hello.
I have an eating disorder.
I skip meals.
I don’t love myself.
Hello.
I can’t let people in.
I’m scared of people knowing me.
So i hide away.
Hello.
I’m unconfident.
I need constant assurance.
Am I bothering you?
Hello.
I’m sad most of the time.
I’m not good at being happy.
Sorry I’m always down.
Hello.
How are you?
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
ONE
man sits in a pristine state of loneliness
his one heart in perfect singularity
waiting
to be found
not bothering to search
waiting to find himself
as a part
of
TWO
hands held
with two beats, the quiet
lub-dub of each of the
two hearts
slightly out of synchronization
overlapping
just a touch
so the two double beats
become a beat
of
THREE
perfect circles in descending sizes
in each of their
eyes
of which there are
FOUR
lip touches to say goodbye
because the first
would’ve been the last without the second,
the second wasn’t sufficient
and the third wasn’t enough
and the fourth
would lead to kiss
number
FIVE
fingers locked
around
five
fingers
on the small of her back
and five fingers wrapped up in
his hair
he wishes he had more fingers to make the
hold stronger
he wishes
he had
SIX
syllables spoken between them
the same three words repeated
so they know
that
their hearts beat
a little bit closer
the veins and arteries
wrapping around the other
pulling it in
pulling the beats together
making them a little less
disjointed
but she’s all the nearer comatose,
her slow beats
in this minute
barely reached
SEVEN
sounds
that he counts
in every
minute
that he stands there
unable
to sit
his legs locked, shut
like her eyes
that he wants to stare into
he shakes
she does not stir
even as the sun climbs higher in the morning sky
she does not stir
he counts more sounds
every minute
he counts as they
go from
seven
to
EIGHT
arms and legs
wrapped like tentacles
wrapped so tight
never wanting to release
and show the red
suction marks
from each of their fingers
on the other’s
skin
like an octopus
their eight limbs
holding together
their one heart
it’s dull
lub-dub beat
in perfect synchronization
with itself
in the perfect opposite
of a pristine
state of loneliness
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 3:01 PM UTC
The woman poured herself another glass of wine,
Like another night alone.
The house was empty,
And the humming of the dishwasher bounced off the walls.
She sat by the window and pulled the black heels off her feet.
This was beginning to get old.
People outside paced in pairs.
Her house was dark.
The only light came from the kitchen,
glowing out to the adjacent ro0m.
She sipped at her wine, and rested the glass on her knee.
With an exasperated sigh,
She threw the wine glass against the opposite wall.
The glass flew, sparkling in the dim light
And merlot ran down the white wall.
She dusted off her hands, and undressed silently.
In the bathroom, she started water for a shower.
In silence, once again, she stood under the rush of water.
An hour's time went by, and the water was shut off.
Without bothering to dry herself, she stepped out,
And fell into bed.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC
I found a lamp, a broken lamp,
keeps shining despite broken.
A magic lamp from a magic land,
Genie's home, o, sweet home.
Three wishes won't ever do,
three wishes crawling from
you;
Seems broken, o, yeah, it's
a broken lamp, a broken lamp from a broken land,
keeps shining despite broken.
Say your three wishes already,
says Genie.
I am writing a poetry, I whisper quietly.
What do you wish it would be? asks Genie, gently.
Ssshhh, you are bothering me, Genie.
Genie was bothering me
so I leave, I leave like the autumn leaves
drift by the window.
I leave like a sunset on a rainy day ---
Never say goodbye
to a broken lamp, a broken lamp from a broken land,
keeps shining despite broken.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
1. I really tried
2. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough
3. Why did I always think everything was about me?
4. You were my angel
5. My demons were too strong
6. I never look people in the eyes because I'm afraid they'll see through my windows and see that there's not light inside
They'll see my secret pain
The monsters gain
Persuasion in the argument
If I should live or die
7. The mask wasn’t supposed to stay on forever but people seemed to like it better than my sadness and sadness doesn’t always cooperate with my plans. Like sometimes sadness just wants to stretch his legs across my face leaving traces that look like tired eyes and furrowed brows. Sadness, like water, will take the path of least resistance from the world to heart and back. Self-endulgend, sadness begs for hosts without every bothering to host the party because sadness doesn’t mind if he overstays his welcome.
8. I was 17 when he died, it has been eight years
9. If I can't win the fight to stay
If I lose and go my way
I have to believe things will be OK
Because your grief won't come
From the fact that I am gone
Maybe you'll think about what
We could have done to better get along
10. You won’t often think of me
So let me go, let me be free
Your mind is the sun
Confidence and clean
11. My mind is a terror
That doesn't deal in dream
In years to come, perhaps
You think of us
A memory we shared
12. I wish I let you in and feel a connection
Isolationist tendencies are decidedly not the best strategy
So my island is a prison
Not a blessed reclusion from the judgments of my mental illness
I'm simply in denial to any sickness at all
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC