"cheapening" poems
Valentine's us nearly upon us
So when that romantic day dawns
I'm going to be at the movies
Munching on popcorn
Why? Deadpool is out that same day
And since I'm by myself again this year
I can trot myself to the movies without fear.
Now I wrote once about how St. Valentine was a *********
I've changed my opinion due to this recent marketing blitz
He didn't like pain, he created a cheapening industry
So he wasn't a ***** fellow, he was simply plain greedy.
But in conclusion, you shouldn't wait till the 14th to show that you care
Show every chance you get or they'll no longer be there
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
We were sat in a corridor
Two ciders beside you and
Empty space with me.
You looked me in the eye
In the midst of a conversation
I love you - said with a laugh
Without realising it
My eyes lit up.
I hate that.
You're teaching me the meaning
Of cheapening your words.
But you still ask what I think.
You ASK about my thoughts and views
not many people do that
So I forgive you.
I thought I was done with princes -
royalty and pompous nature
Once again I'm wrong.
You demanded that I leave you
The puzzle
Alone.
But why do you stay?
Why do you stay and ask?
You and I are alike, I'm sure
and if you want me to leave
show me the truth, show me I'm wrong.
Because if you are me
I think you're just scared of opening up
Scared of being hurt.
True, I may hurt you.
You have no rhyme or reason to trust me
All I can do is wait for a chance-
And ask that you let me in to try.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
Hobbling out of bed
Half dead
I'm led
To the bathroom
The shower a vacuum
Of my powerlessness
But first i ****
Then get in
**** out the contaminants
Of my ***** habits
And i scrub
I scrub off
The plastic love
The mean mug
And tug on my ****
Plant a vision til it pops
And drop
To the shower floor
Tilt my head back
And gurgle to the gods
For more
Scrub the grill
Lay a towel on the floor
Suit up for a war
Two sprays of cologne
And im out the door
Headphones on
Angels atoning
To the morning
As im floating
Through the fog
Descending in my grog
Along the path
Like a lab rat
For a slab of cheese
Through the swamps
And trees
Trampling
Dead things
And leafs
And im seen
By nobody
As i ascend a hill
To the corporate power
Where ill cower
For nine hours
Before reporting home
Going to bed
And waking up
To do it all again
Its blue collar zen
And im bored
So fraking bored
With my chores
Id rather scribble sounds
Into forms
Verbal storms
Visual cores
Implored
To explore
The tortured
Terms in torrents
Of turbulent
Talks with dead gods
And im born
Into the horns
Ive sworn
To protect
In widows peaks
And deepened
Speeches
I'm infected
With my perfection
Torn
In the muffled traces
Of noiselessness
Among the space-less
Distances
To my sentences
Taking out the crackles
And recording
Over the blemishes
Relishing
The fragile moments
Of eloquence
In **** jokes
And threatening
Gestures
Jesting
The restructuring
Of molesting
Verbiage beat
Over the mic
Delusions enticed
In my writes
Of fights
In long sleepless nights
Of rhyming
With bad timing
And mumbling
Of slimy things
Bubbling in the cuts
Dubsteped to **** fits
Sunkissed in lacking curtains
Disturbing the certainty
Of sleep
And cheapening
My dreams
Rolling over
Planting my feet
Upon wood floors
Hobbling toward
Tomorrow
Sorrowfully
Repeating
The same thing
Washing away the sleep
And fleeing
My creativity
For the rest of the week
(in progress)
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
Looks at me
Quite pistol whipped
Cheap *****
A taste on my lips
Speeding down
United States
Federal Highway 1
I dream that I am
Dead in each ditch
I pass
David Bowie deep cut and
I want to be free like this forever
I try to explain
Using these letters
Cheapening
It just for you
Dutch courage
Nudging me
Neon Strip Bar Glowing
I'm a quiet person
Keeping to myself
But
Born a fighter
Hard fists scarred
Dirt under my nails
I never fail
To wake up
Hung over
On her words
Cautioning me
To slow down
Smoking ***
Playing darts
With old timers
And drunks
People and places
Long forgotten
Bloodied then
Whitewashed
Concrete
Wide awake
Always Dreaming
Dead asleep
In the driver seat
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
burnett's in the bloodstream now,
his cheap strawberry liquor
cheapening my strawberry kisses by
increasing supply in the absence of
appreciable increase in demand;
Economics 101, taught by the
professor in the tweed jacket
with the leather elbows.
you say you want to
practice black magic, and I'm
so down; god you're so hot.
I just want you to kiss my back and
cast a spell on me,
but you've already done the
latter, and you will
never do the first.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
Your arms cannot hoist me from the well,
your hope echoes, cheapening the sentiment,
the moon may be full,
but it's dark down here alone.
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 3:32 AM UTC
I stood slumped into the corner
of two converging granite counter tops,
struggling to focus on what
he's remembering next—some bland anecdote
or an irrelevant detail: *Larson,
I think,* he says finally.
Between pauses—with small, contemplating eyes
set deep, split by his dark, Italian nose—
and dragged uhhh's and hmmm's,
a sowed adoration splits and grows,
a seed (a supernova now).
A man—half my connection
to this world, to existence,
to a trickling, patient bloodline.
He, I; a rambling, scatterbrained mess
of neurons and hard-wiring, sparks and electrical fires.
My father: plagued by anger and impatience,
a sitcom of clumsiness and a tied-tongue,
blessed by conviction, faith and reason.
I don't say any of this. He'll die first,
never knowing how easily I'm reminded
of what I am to become, 32 years from now,
unless he finds me drunk, perhaps after reciting vows,
now vulnerable to cheapening emotion into language.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
Boy meets girl
Blank walls
Empty space
Boy says
“I feel comfortable around you”
Girls heart flies
Space is filled with trust and friendship
Girl likes boy
Girl is quite
She is afraid of saying anything
That could off set what is
So carefully balanced
Space is enough
Boy drinks a bit
Smokes a bit more
Dozes off in oblivion where
Nothing can hurt him
Space is safe from intruders
And those who are unwelcome
Girl pretends nothing is wrong
Nothing is being felt
For fear of cheapening
All the beautiful things
That fill the space
Boy gets on a train
Girl watches it pull away
And screams all the things
She wishes she had said after it
But it is too late for possibilities
But the space is safe
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
and after all the excuses are revealed as the tired assassins which they are
and after we have used up our vast array of cheapening words for "love" and "piety"
which serve to merely condemn us to immature existence
and after we have come to try to be real people once more
naked and pure and beyond the fear of vulnerability
we shall see
coming unto us
the true world
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC
There is a tempest
In the Temple of tonight
All of my values , morals
Are shaking cold from fright
There is a reason now
For all of my due fear
When red is the color
It has turned from water clear
There is red blood from the innocent
Caking on my fingers from their souls
They have been taken in their silence
Their blood has been dried by the cold
In the darkest of the winter
My seed willingly spills
Sickening sweet the cost
Of such a cheapening thrill
It crystalizes screaming
Without making a sound
Upon the snow white flakes
Of the frozen ground
You shuddered when caked
And cold ****** fingers
Stopped to caress your silken breast
Where upon they linger
I briefly touch with the back of my hand
Your perfect cheek that flowers this land
I turn to see a nor by norwestern star
It's my place , my home so far
Then into the blackness
where none of the living dare goes
Love takes a walk with me
Until it's suddlenly froze
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
death to the hair!
all the men burning their
hir!
yeah... the missing A...
must be...
Cymru-Silesian...
coraline soundtrack -
dreaming...
davy jones' - theme song
edward scissorhands' -
ice dance
once i used to cry...
but have you ever watched
snow fall,
in a graveyard,
at night?
it'a like...
the souls of the dead were
being reborn...
so little of this world
is due to the up-keeping
of a fleeting-thought,
its objectification
of this world..
and so much of it...
is due... sorry,
dough,
of what is not thought,
but is felt...
hence my disgruntling at
what is at most: disgrace!
cheapening emotion,
how could you!
how could you
cheapen emotion to a level
of elevating thought?!
heretics!
i'll say it again:
blasphemers!
who are you to demean
emotion in favor of thought,
which you cannot convince?!
batman returns OST -
birth of a penguin part 1 & 2...
no wonder i go and ****
once my grandparents are alive...
a week or two...
twice a year...
weeks after Christmas,
and weeks after Easter...
4am over-shadows...
that concept of a lingering
guilt, about some cleavage
named Kelley Scarlett...
my due... your turn...
death appears, and disappears,
but then the "magic" of mortality...
ever watch snow fall
in a graveyard?
ever watch a supposed
Dervish in said "in situ"?
i could have died,
but upon a reinterpretation,
i did't have to live,
to subsequently die,
to live once more...
i... just didn't require
to live, at all.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
I can't write a love poem
I'm missing a muse
I'm also afraid of cheapening the art,
of being generic.
I can't write a love poem,
but I'd love to…
why am I afraid to try?
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
a stenographer, suddenly faced with the importance
of a freshly-inked word on a desiccated page
was so silent, and silence dictates
it spoke volumes, but she was deaf
so her hand just plotted along...
it was as if the texture of the page suggested it
and away the pen ran along the grooves
the scholars were so **** upset
so uptight, alone and aloof
so they spoke to themselves, to no others
and no one fully listened, or tried
(just half interested nods
with minimal eye
contact
and we waited for the end)
as we had walked along
the dusty shoreline
you said;
'I hear the clattering of the television in the next room
the scant candlelight manifests over the dead powerline
& when anyone reads, re-reads it,
I will wonder what was being carried on about
and speculate why your persuasion pervades
a soul-crushing cheapening of the divine
an endless routine, banality of eternity
strength or weakness in our climbing limbs
hosts and the departing parties, faces sans grins
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC