"coms" poems
The other day
When I said that your face reminds me of a rhinoceros
I wasn't saying that you look like a bulky box
Or that your skin looks grey
I was really trying to say that
You make me feel like there are a hundred
5 ton mammals stampeding across my heart
And sometimes when I look at you
I can't even breathe
Because all the weight of wanting this
Crushes my lungs til my chest burns like an African desert
Consequently most rhinos are found in Africa
And I researched all of this in the hopes that
Maybe you would understand
You see the thing is I am not good with emotions
And I know as much about love as I know about quantum physics
And I don't even know what quantum physics is about
Or what it means for that matter
I've been trying to read all the romance novels that I could find
I've been trying to watch all the rom-coms I can torrent
Hell I even watched Valentine's Day thrice
But I still don't know what to do when I'm with you
I am unsure and clumsy and petrified
So much so that I can't even work up the courage
To hold your hand
I'm trying, I really am
It's just so **** difficult
When falling in love feels more like
Jumping out of a helicopter
A hundred thousand feet up
Without a parachute on
One day I will be able
To directly say what I really mean
Without metaphors involving animals
That only I understand
But for now let me just say
Your face reminds me of a rhinoceros
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole god **** sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.
“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.
White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
**** you
It sounds so bitter coming from a mothers mouth
If I have a daughter I will only tell her sweet nothings about how wonderful she is, how beautiful she is and I will never spew the profanities that you've shouted at me because I want her confidence to be as high as the skyscrapers that just skim the clouds so she knows that nothing is the limit
Darling, I will tell her, if someone thinks you're too big for them then they obviously don't have the equipment for the job anyway instead of tagging along on a shopping spree where the only thing I tell her is how that top brings out her belly rolls and how that skirt shows her love handles, I will handle her with all the love I have
I will promise her that I will never say I told you so especially when her first love cheats on her and she comes to me in tears wanting nothing but a hug, I will supply the chocolates, the rom-coms and teach her that the only men you need in life are Ben & Jerry
If I have a daughter, I will never compare her to her brother, I will never brag about only one of them to people I meet on the street, I will never tell her that she should be more like him because he's perfect at everything she's not without even trying...I will tell her she's good at everything I will say she's the best at having the worst coordination, like her mother, I will tell her she's the best at being who she is, I will tell her she is the best at stealing my heart away every time I look at her
So thank you Mom...for teaching me what not to do, for showing me how to break down your daughters confidence, thank you for teaching me what a hypocrite is, thank you for all the 'I told you sos' and thank you...for teaching me how to be a mother
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
I'm not exactly sure what love is.
I don't know what it is supposed to feel like.
But I know this.
Every time I see you,
My palms start sweating uncontrollably
And I wonder how in hell
I am ever supposed to hold your hand
If being yards away from you
Does that to me.
When I see you,
I swear "Dream Weaver" starts playing
In my head.
Whenever I see you,
I feel like I have to puke,
And it's the best feeling ever.
Every time I am done
Spending time with you,
I have to *** right away from nervousness.
But there's not a single person
I am more comfortable around.
When I am around you,
I spend more time
Covering up the teeth I'm so insecure of
Than I do talking to you.
I don't do that around anyone else,
But then again,
No one makes me laugh as much as you do.
When I see you,
I start thinking of different cheesy quotes
From different cheesy Rom-Coms,
And pray to God
That you haven't seen those movies,
So on the one in a billion chance
That I am actually brave enough to say something,
You won't realize how unoriginal I am.
Whenever I am with you,
And you ask me if I agree with what you said,
I'm lying.
I have no idea what you've just said.
I was too busy counting the wrinkles
Around your eyes
(Because wrinkles are my favorite, you know).
When you hug me,
I feel like crying.
WHY DO I FEEL LIKE CRYING?!
I have no idea what love is.
But let me tell you,
This feels pretty **** close.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
**Inspired by Meg Cranston's Artist for President
(http://www.uniteddivas.com/megcranston/megpresident.html)**
We assert that there is a youth culture that is different and separate from all other cultures and that our culture is governed by principles which the aged population finds peculiar or offensive.
We are tired of being labeled.
We are tired of being segmented.
We are tired of hearing old people talk about us.
We are tired of being the respondents to your 20 city questionnaire.
We are done with being ignored.
We are sick of 1980s spandex.
We are sick of your Top 40 hits on a compact disc.
We are sick of your rom-coms and big budget fantasy sci-fi sequels.
We are sick of 60 billion ad messages being hurled from satellites in outer space.
We are done with being disappointed.
We demand the right to change everything.
We demand the right to create our own words.
We demand the right to define what is cool in the morning.
We demand the right to re-define what is cool in the evening.
We are done with being told to follow.
We reserve the right to be elitist.
We reserve the right to choose our heroes.
We reserve the right to create jobs that never existed before.
We reserve the right to outsource, open-source and crowdsource everything and all.
We are done with your rigid ways.
We condemn the wars that you started.
We condemn the poverty and hunger you created.
We condemn your irresponsibility in ignoring our dying planet.
We condemn the forces of greed that keeps an honest man from climbing the income brackets.
We will fix the mess you left behind.
This is for school kids
This is for college students
This is for young professionals
This is for the young artist who shares his creations on DeviantArt
This is for the young blogger who dreams of being a travel journalist
This is for the podcaster who is on her way to become a successful RJ
This is for the YouTube user who dreams of her own television show and feature film
This is for the photography enthusiast who spends his pocket money on a Flickr Pro Account
This is for the opinionated Twitter-for-Blackberry addict destined to become a Twitter celebrity. (Even we don’t know what that means!)
This is for the coding guru who gifts his geek friend a mobile gaming app based on Dungeons & Dragons for his birthday. Yes that is cool...for now.
This is youth culture
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 2:24 PM UTC
Bread and circuses
Our world today,
In our sweet, free homeland.
We grow fat on breads
Pastries and sugars
And watch our
Sit coms on tv
Oblivious to the world around us
What's really happening?
Outside these walls of our free country
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
My lids peel back slow to let another
weary day tackle me to the floor.
I push aside overbearing blankets
and shuffle down an empty hallway
into another more bare than afore.
Dragging my feet seems to require
more power than I had thought before.
Nothing but dark rooms ahead await
dully lit by open ‘fridgerators
that make monster shadows of purple,
frightening paintings that taunt Fate.
The shifting faces mock chance of late.
My reveries halt to disturbance that
a noise from somewhere below brings out.
I breathe deeply in as hope fills me-
a hope of the promise of a frozen mouth.
I think in that breath it is you I hear
rumbling and padding ‘round down the stairs
and I tell myself I am right, for it has to be you;
if it is not, no one else seemingly cares.
Morning breaks open the torment of day
like a ripped wound exposed to salty air.
I swallow back like every day the tears;
wrap myself up in old, cold sit-coms
and warm blankets to banish my fears.
Force myself to endure the hefty bombs
showered at my skull like a falsified norm.
The house lies vacant, in wait of you,
haunted by memories etched on paling skin.
Pacing remains the only thing I can do
to strain against the barrage of pins.
As always, I grin and I jump and I wave
so everyone can see just how brave
I am.
I am.
But I can’t be anymore
and the salt-water behind my eyes
screams to exit the pores.
I can’t hold them in much longer
and I’m all out of supplies
that keep me stronger
than I am.
I’ve run out of the fog
that my brain runs on, and
my heart condones.
I have painted on a clown-smile
and I'm quelled inside, flat.
All that is left in me now
is a crushed can of cola
shoving hard at my ribcage.
I am waiting still and know for sure
all will be as it was in times of yore.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
I need you in my life, baby
The only productive addiction in my future is to your proximity
A decade of scattered sorrows is but an aching blink when I’m with you
You manifest what I could never say or feel without the fear of exile
Rom-Coms hold no candle or wick to our story
Proposals would only seem like trivial when it comes to you and I
We’re closer than nostalgia and episodic memory
closer than gods and their devotees
closer than the dawn and dusk
when nine to fives carry you through a day
Yet despite our bond
only I can hear you, see you, feel you, think you
So with baited breath I speak your name, or at least what you are known as:
Imagination.
Oct 25, 2022
Oct 25, 2022 at 3:18 PM UTC
he craves online hook-ups.
But this isn't me
nor am I that intrepid
a torrent trampoline
on wireless ether engines
cyber silver surfin'
zone on / in .nets & .coms
searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M / in-fantasized delights
an itch to fix
to sit transfixed
as if
subliminally attached
umbilically
digitally digitized digi-man
to a electronic felatio soundtrack
yet all the while detached
lurking duplicitly
reading pretend profiles explicitly
for *** sexified mind
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
tandem testimonials as if written
by a Compaq-machine-head
Microsoftened lust
currents electric now as we turn into dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists for Adams
status' with "anything goes"
remonstrating our vicious cycle
alive & blank with un/trust
gone viral...
this isn't me.
where is the warmth
of feelings, emotions,
malleable and infallible / love??
I am not as talented
as he
to be in two places at once,
but he
has the many faces
and genius of multiple personalities
Cybil
facets
of sabotage with Mommy Dearest grace.
Beautiful strangers his acquired
taste...
he says it was not him
(doing ****
my rage has only one trait.
two eyes (once wide asleep in the lies)
and velvet-rope-burned
wrists
my feet learn to fly
my heart un-breaks
my wings reanimate...
he has too many faces
doppleganger hatred
none to care for or embrace
When did I go blind,
and leave my many strengths?
Where do I now
again
begin??
(The rubble or the sin?)
Every night adieu
Every day anew
once again...
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
You told me you loved me amongst the crowd of a Steelers game while we were searching for a hot dog and soda. Not the most enchanting, but perhaps I watch too many rom-coms for my own good. I think I've always just romanticized each aspect of a relationship and all the major moments based on what media told me meant the most.
Opening my eyes now, those special moments aren't always at a candlelit dinner or by a fireplace, many times they are at a cookout with your friends or the zoo with my nieces and nephews. The beauty of feeling something so deeply that you just have to say it, even if it's in front of a porta ***** at a church festival or the stoplight on your way home, that's the real love that people feel.
So when I tell you I love you while sitting on my couch on a random Monday night, know that I mean it. Know that every muscle in my body wanted to tell you because I didn't wait for candlelight or an array of stars, instead I told you in the most real way, our way.
We will still have those romantic moments on a boat under the moonlight or the fireplace of an old house, but we will also have those passionate moments where we couldn't keep our feelings in anymore and the most appropriate place just happens to be a crowded train on the way downtown and an airport bar. I love you and I'll say it anywhere.
-t.s.
Feb 22, 2024
Feb 22, 2024 at 9:55 PM UTC
I birthed
a faceless character
and my amniotic aura leaked out
spreading langloriously
across https
.coms
///////
all over
the www.
My character
grew its skin
as a layer over mine
as thin as a tan
and as permanent as
true love
(whose permanence
s t r e t c h e s
to the size of your faith).
- LP
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
Candles flicker,
dark room thicker,
breath bubbles
in my lungs,
suppress a giggle,
heart flutters.
Internal torment,
ceaseless pounding,
reverberation,
makes me stutter.
Sixteen-year-old dreams
of rom-coms and foot pops
and sunset walks
make me shudder.
It's this gentle flutter,
elusive and exhausting,
mind wandering,
pulse dancing in my veins,
a different kind of fascination,
or maybe hesitation,
and crouching aspiration,
that makes me stutter.
A quick pucker,
and this different kind of flutter
will open the shutters.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
Come here.
Let’s.
Let’s?
Let’s…
Let’s.
Come here.
Listen to Edith Piaf
(So hipster, n'est-ce pas?)
and the scratch of her
voice on the turntable,
will be ours
to keep in Moleskine
notebooks of memory.
So that we’ll try to believe,
love is actually a thing.
Let’s.
Come here.
This quaint room will be
ours,
our guest, as we breathe life
into the coffee cups, wooden chairs.
We’ll give it a nose, yes.
Lightbulbs will smell red
wine in fingerprinted glasses.
Windows will drink
us,
to us.
And we’ll laugh, our faces
hot and sad, mouths
crammed with French
fries.
A scene blurred with happiness.
Let’s.
Come here.
Trash the hands of every
boy, who’s spread himself
out on marginalia of our days.
Slathered himself on pieces
of time we wish we had hugged to ourselves.
Hate, hate, hate
him, we’ll say.
And his **** hands.
Let’s.
Come here.
Our eyes will be fireflies
behind our glasses,
in this cinema’s night, as we ‘swoon’
at rom-coms as buttery
as the popcorn we bought in the interval.
Life’s too short, we say.
Eat about it, drink about it,
maybe even talk about it.
Forget about it.
Let’s.
Come here.
Talk, about nothing.
We’ll all be dead one day.
Let’s.
Come here.
We can be friends.
Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s?
(And your giggle will end
all and every verse written.
I’m **** sure of it.)
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Me ain't no perfect speechifyer or scribbler
But I curse the mistakes I makes
I had a stipud airor in my last poem
So what. Why should I kare?
I should' nt : **** i do
I fill the need to be perfect 100 persent of the tyme
Win it coms to grammer and usedage
Dos a meckanic need to drive perfectly;
No and ain't no nobody say nothin
**** i fill the nead to be perfact allways
It just ain't fair
How ever: ain't one people out of 363 reader
Said nothin to me
Sew may be I m the only ones who aspects
Me too bee purfect!
Or were u thinkin how Ironicable?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
They say “write what you know”
I want to write about love and beauty, but I only know ugly.
No heart has ever belong to me,
no hands have ever sparked at a touch.
Ugly lives with creative minds,
given courtesy of dreamy teen rom coms.
I want to write about fun family trips and birthdays'.
Joyous days spent frolicking on the beach,
but I only know secrets, shouting, spite.
Love that should be given as sweet as honey,
yet this family bee sting is laced with bitterness.
I would love to write about the moments of content.
wrapped in the light of the moon with someone,
breathing in synchronisation.
To tremor when I stand around you,
my heart racing to keep up with my shaky infatuation.
So i don’t write about these things.
I write about awkward fumblings,
ungracefulness of my ungainly movements.
dinners with no conversation,
the dullness of an everyday flat life.
I write what i know.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Heartache.
*It's more than an evening or weekend
Of ice cream and fine chocolate,
When listening to love songs,
Or watching rom coms on the couch
In jammies--*
It's in all those nights of crying
While clutching at your pillow,
Begging for some semblance of solace.
It's in waking walking wandering wondering.
While looking down at your chest,
In every other even odd moment of consciousness
To check if the hole in your heart
Is finally visible from the outside.
It's that deep breath inhaled;
To counter the effects of the memories he gave,
That enables you to breathe again,
And the rapid blinking that keeps your eyes dry--
For just a little longer...
It's in re-building that wall.
Remember the wall? *The one you tore down
To let him in?*
Only, it's a shade darker than the last time.
Heartache is that deep, bottomless
Feeling of drowning
In misery and rejection
From the one person
You singled out from the crowd.
It's that overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia;
Which tells you,
*'If you're not with him,
You'll go celibate!'*
It's that ghost of a kiss,
That threatens to be the death of you;
It haunts your lips in your pale reality.
It's that hollow heart
That longs for his warmth, his arms
Those dreams of his beating heart next to yours;
Helping you regenerate
Only to be broken with sunrise, in emptiness.
When those unforgiving rays heat up everything,
But you're still freezing...
It's that poisoned apple you ate;
It runs in your veins.
Refusing to be digested,
Causing that overbearing chronic ache
That makes you want to scream out
In pure agony--
Making you wish,
'If only he stayed!'
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Life is Horror-Comedy
and sometimes Film Noir,
Other genres might be fun,
but it's just not how things are.
Too Unpredictable
for Rom-Coms
But too Mundane for Fantasy
Too much fun for Thrillers and Dramas,
not Badass enough for Action
(but almost enough Shooting Sprees)
Too many Happy Endings
To be a Tragedy
But far from Enough
to be ***********
Life is ***
and Drugs
and Fear
and Love
the Need to Protect
and the Need to Spill Blood
It's Laughter
and Song
and things going Wrong
Hits on your Enemies
Hits from the ****
Hitting on the Opposite ***
Flirting with Danger
Dancing with Death
Life is...
Hatred and Violence
that Long, Awkward Silence
When you work up the Courage
to Deny them Compliance
It is Heaven
and Hell
and Voodoo Love Spells
from the Inception of Cells
to the Old Funeral Bells
There's Madness
and Sadness
and "Thank God! I'm Glad"-ness
Life is Classy
but Savage
Full of Beauty
and Damage.
Life would Honestly
be Worthless without Comedy
We'd never learn
To Rock or Roll
without the Music of the Soul
and though there's too much Torture
in everybody's Story
We must admit
without Horror
Life would be
Pretty
Boring.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Male fraud
That’s what she called him
After that good start, she thought
Lean and handsome
Hair down to his jaw
Coulda been a model, she reckoned
That he split the check on the first date
Shoulda been a sign
Then the kiss that didn’t come
She was blind
To the narcissist he is
23 dates in three years
Still, she soldiers on
Bumbling through life
She thinks she’s gone through every bachelor
This city has to offer
There’s got to be more
Dating’s a long, arduous chore
The next candidate has a nice pedigree
Ivy League, cool job in the Industry
A production exec who green-lights rom coms
He seemed nice on the phone
The date is on
I’ll report back
Tomorrow at dawn
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
I'm an Anti-Romantic
I don't believe in Love anymore
I think I've lost faith in it
A waste of my time
Is like eating chocolate
I don't feel any sweetness
Only the bitterness within
A flaming love
Burnt till there's only
black soot left
No more love poems
No more rom coms
No more valentine's
I'm an Anti-Romantic
May 26, 2022
May 26, 2022 at 8:14 AM UTC
i sometimes sit and ponder
what my life would be like
with out the both of you
i suspect,
i would be some
small (uni) town
catlady, about sevencatcrazy
exsisting on takeaway chinese and rom coms
soglad you came along, happenstance as it was...
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC