"condescended" poems
564
My period had come for Prayer—
No other Art—would do—
My Tactics missed a rudiment—
Creator—Was it you?
God grows above—so those who pray
Horizons—must ascend—
And so I stepped upon the North
To see this Curious Friend—
His House was not—no sign had He—
By Chimney—nor by Door
Could I infer his Residence—
Vast Prairies of Air
Unbroken by a Settler—
Were all that I could see—
Infinitude—Had’st Thou no Face
That I might look on Thee?
The Silence condescended—
Creation stopped—for Me—
But awed beyond my errand—
I worshipped—did not “pray”—
5.7k
Hunger and Desire grew
'til bellies everywhere were
ruined for sustenance,
so in went the troops to wage
war against ideas and
when they arrived there were no
soldiers to speak of
so they set up tents
and didn't go away
they sang drunken war-songs
until the moan of starvation bellies
sang louder and more terribly
"That must have been them
the whole time!" they said, and
suited up for the charge.
So they trained their shells at the city
excited to see if target practice
had done them any good
but all they did was mortar themselves to bits
squadrons of video-game experts
sent drones overhead to drop
Hallmark cards titled "Why it's your fault"
and coupon booklets for American
chain shopping outlets to come
but they only marginalized
and condescended themselves
"Bring in the reinforcements!"
they cried, even conscripting
their hapless targets. This mob,
too, was a hungry belly
bellowing for satisfaction,
a cannibal ***
simmering
So they set up tables and stacked
boring paperwork, filing away
spirits broken by shrapnel and white
phosphorus
but they only resigned themselves
to imaginary lines and the plunder
of Control, insensibly
****** themselves to death
while they watched,
perplexed.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Do you know what beauty is?
Some say it's these eyes.
The same eyes that have been rubbed with fists
that don't know their purpose,
fists that only know these tears are foreign,
and it is their job to eradicate them.
These eyes are two-sided mirrors,
only showing what the outer person believes to see,
not what's really there.
These eyes have known smiles, but not sleep;
joy, but not peace.
Are these eyes still beautiful?
Some say it's this smile.
The same smile that has been too many frowns,
curves of confusion and wishful thinking.
These teeth, straight and strong
only because of man's work, not nature's.
Teeth that were once blamed for unattractiveness,
and kept hidden by tight-lipped
excuses of a smile.
Lips that are anxiously bit rather than kissed,
red with embarrassment and the feeling
of never measuring up.
Together, these lips and teeth create a smile,
but alone they are just forcefully arranged teeth,
and lips that worry.
Is this smile still beautiful?
Some say it's these curls.
The curls that are, but don't want to be,
and only are because hormones got a hold of them.
These curls are soft, but disguised of that
by flyaway frizz that wants freedom
but will never get it.
These curls are angry at their boundaries,
and they take that anger out on me.
The truth is, I could never set them as free
as they wish to be.
Are these curls still beautiful?
Some say it's this size.
The petite waist and slender arms,
the curvy legs and prominent chest,
this childish height.
Smallness makes the big feel bigger,
stronger, more capable.
But it also makes the small feel smaller.
This is the same waist that hungers perpetually,
the same arms that shiver when no one else does,
the curves that hesitate instead of bragging,
and the height that's mocked, condescended,
and shamefully despised.
Is this size still beautiful?
The heart of the matter is that beauty
is simply misunderstood.
Beauty is the surface of unfathomable depths.
It is not beauty at all, but merely
an acceptance, or a recovery, or a new birth.
Something that was,
but wasn't until it was discovered.
And if this is the case, why aren't we searching for it?
Why are we waiting for beauty to appear
when we could be finding it?
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
You just don't know if you are just being critical or judgemental. Careless or stupid. You got excited and bored at the same time. Loving the moments but still want to go home. Laughing and feel condescended at the same time. Feel pity but have no courage to help. You think before you said something but sometimes you just rambling nonstop. You feel motivated as **** and then you wondering if you could just vanished. You pray, pray, and pray but you still feel not content about yourself. God will guide you when you lost. But you are not lost. You are on clear paths. Gun on your sleeve. But you just high. High of hurly burly of life. Cause you unintentionally took the wrong pills and then your life suddenly change.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
I took the test
It was positive
I knew what I had to do
But how... when it is illegal to do..
And who...
Who decided to dictate
What a woman
Could do to her own fate
Please, tell me who...
Who believed themselves better
Than a struggling woman
Having to choose to destroy a part of her
I beg you, tell me who...
Who condescended on the pain
Of an incapacitated, cramping, crying woman
Ejecting blood, tissue, a life in vain
I'll tell you who it wasn't
Certainly not the man
Who said 'let's keep it casual'
And walked away with no future plan
A woman torn and a child unborn
Is a story of intimate pain and private loss
Not a tale of judgement and scorn
Not a law for men to gloss and floss
Jan 18, 2024
Jan 18, 2024 at 1:07 PM UTC
Make me *** and I'll come for you, until they pull me down and make me cough out loud. I'm a street named Chance and I'm awful loud, I read right to left. I hear colors not sounds. I'm a maniac, maniac, for Empire Carpet. I've been hospitalized for being honest, and condescended to for living life on the edge, with a knife in my bed, a pillow under my head. Where I've pollinated my sheets with the easements of sleep, and circumvented my best friends just to shake up the news. I've been used, I've been lied to, I've been amused, I've survived abuse, I've been bruised, I've leaned toward the obtuse, I've leant forward for truth, and I've written down my upsides and foretold my mishaps, I'm a backwards commando for import and export of hazmat, and especially bath mats, CB2 or IKEA, Bed, Bath, and Beyond, or just farther beyond. I remain calm, while the adverbs stack in my palms, it's the trick of word pimping to work verbs into adjectives, articles attached to their nouns, an ellipsis or eroteme, a period or comma. I said I am ******* so now won't you come. I've evolved what I've said into parts of a song. So push back on me and I'll push back in you, I'll take your words and re-dedicate them into consonants and vowels. Hang up your heraldry, and never put down your *** Keep your habits to bedrooms, and your words to never forget.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
I was nerdy-
Round glasses, long hair that went everywhere
Braces and chubby legs- my nose always in a book
My face- a ruddy bumpy mess with early acne at
age 10
You glanced sideways at me on the bus-
Perfect hair, trendy clothes, active party life
Made you higher- then me-
Made you better- then me-
Or so you thought, as you condescended to
smile at me once in a while
Like a dog on the street
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged
Learned my social skills from books and public television
Got better with age
Used to think the best way to like a guy was to insult them
all the time
Punch them in the arm- make up teasing songs about them
While secretly I pined and longed for a hug or a kiss-
Thinking it'd make me happy somehow
You laughed at my antics- seeing right through them
And teased me about every boy I liked in junior high
Spread the rumors, thought it was a game
Joked with your friends about how silly I was
Not like rejection wasn't hard enough without ridicule
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged
I was a fat seventh-grader
Trying to fit in without necessary clothes
Or the money to buy it with
Stole my moms old hippie shirts and
All my sisters stuff I could get away with-
Wanting so badly to be the girl with a certain style
You- wearing your new outfit, best haircut, trendy jeans
told me I looked ridiculous
Said each new thing was absurd
I wrung my hands- pretended I did not hear
But hopeless- cried later-
Thinking that i’d
Never be popular
Never be anyone to notice
Never be possible to love
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged
Now- full grown
Hut short
I have the knowledge of how to dress
What to do, what to say,
who to talk to
But most importantly though-
Now I know
That none of it matters-
Yet even now when you stand
in the pictures you take at the party you
never thought of inviting me to-
When you laugh at the memory of high school
drama without ever trying to understand
what actually happened
When you figure Im not worth getting to know
Its easy to revert
And go back to the little girl
Wanting so badly just to belong
But I try not to and bury that loneliness deep
And in the end, Im stronger for it, I guess-
Stronger for the bruises and blows you delt-
Strong enough
To let them go
And strong enough
To let your words fade-
Thank you
for reminding me
that I don't want to belong
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
The scarf caused confusion
To his ignorant thoughts
Consumed by hatred and violence
He rang out eight shots
The media danced
In a pathetic flurry
Talking of "parking spots"
And "those Muslim students"
First things first
It was a hate crime
The killer had been to their house
More than one time
He condescended
He threatened
He talked down
Like bigots do
Yet this is something
The media tends to ignore
Let's focus on something less tense
Like a nice little parking spot
Next it must be said
That these were Americans
Just because they're not white
Doesn't mean they weren't born here
Yet let the media dance continues
Label them simply as "Muslims"
It's easy to forget
When it's just an "other"
So the story obscures
While these three young people are dead
Will Obama come to their defense
Or start another war instead
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
to live which what life beyond being
(is there some I
stagger up with moonlight
the cool instant breath
of standing hot between
nothing and nothing )
vast and vast and vast
that enormous when of feeling the wind
around drunk drinking of the texture of a breath:
collapsing the condescended body of the moon stars laughter just inside the house outside which dreams the world of rain darkness and the impossible languor of health–
the need
the urge
the rush
to quietly pursue books of open girlness;
pages terribly comfortable to grasp and fill within letters of self.
how which we desire what to be perfectly exact of easy being:
the frond which stands strong without tending of hand–
the garden filled with the immense flower of youth.
And never to die,
never to grow old
or weak inside.
(what an impossible thing it is to know; to love; to live )
what an impossible thing it is to laugh
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC