"conformist" poems
Humans are by nature
unappeasable no matter their behavior.
As a conformist
We threaten outsiders,
Yet long to be our own person.
And individuality is no better,
We long for acceptance of
The group we once called home.
That is the nature of humans,
We viscously treat
those that are not like us.
Its no wonder so few are happy
with such constant inner confliction.
Because the human mind is
a kingdom ruled by two fears,
Fear of the unknown,
And Fear of rejection.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
I can be you, or I can be them
I can be she, or I can be him
but why be a con artist of someone else
like a shadow to my best friend, when I
can be my own person, a unique creation
created in the image of God but representin my own reflection
because I don't wanna see you, them, she, or him in the mirror
I wanna see me through my own eyes, 20/20 vision, but clearer
but the more I conform, the image of someone else draws nearer
and I begin to lose sight of myself, look back in the mirror, and see myself in the rear
a shadow to another figure, a copy of a personality
livin' out another person's dreamed out reality
copying what they think, and succumbing to conformity
but that ain't me....
what you see visually and how I appear physically
is what makes me comfortable, that's why I'm an independent, politically
I don't follow the norms and rules of what's most accepted socially
the only commandments I live by are the ones given Biblically
I ain't the best saint though, I mean I do sin every day
but the only one I wanna copy is Jesus Christ, in every possible way
on the other hand, Satan is out there,
trynna tempt me on how to act and even what words I say
he's out offering me drinks, but I reply, "I'm okay"
cause I don't care if "everyone else is doin' it"
I just live how I like to live, that's what makes me a true non-conformist
I dress how I wish and not because it's in style
I keep my hair big, I do whatever makes me smile
I'm not trynna impress you or fit into your clique
I don't give women pick-up lines and act like I'm slick
I'm me, just me, no facades, just real
and if you can't accept that, then move forward but don't steal
the things that make me special, from my poems to my appeal
so don't try to change me and keep my uniqueness concealed
I could care less about your thoughts and any of your judgements
I refuse to give your words power, I can make your points become pointless
I'm not trynna be harsh, I just love to be different
I wanna be an original and keep my vibe realistic
not a second you, but a first me, no counterfeit
I try to keep up with what God said in Matt 26
verse 41, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak
so pray not to give into temptation and stay on your feet
I encourage us to keep our standards and what makes us unique
and accept anyone else who doesn't wanna repeat
everything you say, and everything you do
sometimes it's the people that are different that come off the most true
because they're not sayin or actin' in ways that you approve
they're given you their honest opinion, you should keep them closest to you
don't conform, forget what people want you to be
just be yourself, not a copy of reality TV.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
She did not keep the peace, was not the conformist in silence, was not a normal person. She was the rebellious martyr filled with centuries upon centuries of the world's anger and trash. She did not yield for a rule, never stormed for the greater good of currency, and was born to die. But of course, not before she recieved what she thrived for.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
It started with a pen,
and wound up in English.
No diction, addiction, or
ambition,
to get published.
“Don’t scream and you’ll look normal.”
Screaming “MISOGYNY!”
if screaming at all,
I’ve seen the great minds of
my generation
addicted to Adderall.
Some friends who get wasted,
and I remain sober.
Cheap ‘03 cars, yet,
no ones coming over.
Actors without work now,
no one with opportunity.
Suicidal crazies now,
crafted from 80’s and 90’s responsibility,
and A is for Adderall.
Sugar coated heroine,
designer drugs.
Poor blacks, whites, mexicans,
and asians swept under the rug.
“The father, the son,
the invisible hand.”
Crack in prisons, *****
holy ******* in a BMW,
Feminism, becomes communism,
becomes atheism becomes you.
You so counter-culture,
you forgot about us,
“She’s not an angel friends,
throw her under the bus.”
Politicians in purple now,
blessed American royalty.
Slaughter the disenfranchised,
poor, socialist regime,
and A is for Adderall.
Don’t shoot the police,
shoot the children instead,
or send them to war,
but the war had to end.
“In god we trust, but
in the market we invest.”
So occupy Wall Street,
and get called a hippie,
or occupy college,
and become a dead beat?
In high school you’re told,
be what you will be.
Cancer is still a…
“…”
…Hereditary disease.
Actors without work still.
Politicians lying still.
Suicidal crazies.
Ecstasy filled crazies.
Counter-culture conformist.
Culture conformist.
Eco-terrorist.
Mindless consumer.
Junkies, addicts,
soldiers, students,
leaders, followers,
murderers, democrats,
conservatives, liberals,
republicans, child molesters,
sexists, racists.
No more labels.
It was every single individual.
Individual failure.
One by one, we were all found guilty.
You are guilty. I am guilty,
and
A is for Adderall,
and the new marginalized.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
There is no such thing
as a note-worthy conformist
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
Eighteen years.
Eighteen long years I've lived on this planet,
Slaving away as another conformist to most rules
(But only so I could survive
And get an education, despite the breakdowns
As my mind couldn't handle the pressure
Of today's expectations).
At times I thought I wouldn't make it;
My lows were... pretty low;
They sometimes cancelled out the highs completely,
Or at least made them seem not so high.
But somehow, I made it,
Along with all the other eighteen-year-olds.
And so I say, congratulations.
We made it.
We may be beaten, bruised, and battered,
Broken, cracked, and frayed,
But we're here.
Brace yourselves.
We're in for a whole new set of challenges.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
Spitting occult lyrics to snow confusions.
I being able to slow my own notions,
Am called the Conformist.
Am not crazy. See my brain?
I swear am just eccentric.
New blessings and abilities become insanity,
Look, this is just an overflow of positivity,
Still, saying am crazy, wont back me down,,
Am just eccentrically gifted by himself different.
Why not for the sake of being admit uniqueness?
Cant change who am made, to this admit pleasing.
A poet I am, not a writer, to me commit ceasing.
Why are my unique thoughts referred 'twisted?
Omit that **** and know eccentric means gifted.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
They went skinny dipping,
when the sky laid heavy and warm,
in bare naked exposure,
night swimming,
in the moonlight bright
she found herself the golden one,
he was a tired diamond,
tired to death of life,
he peeled shells from nutmegs,
which he dutifully crushed,
a sorry occupation,
and he blushed,
the non-conformist nutmeg,
just a little spicy,
he hung them out to dry,
swung from the boughs of the sweet chestnut tree,
shouted so loud,
that his voice became hoarse,
the man who played conkers,
that old chestnut,
the horse one,
picked up his conkers,
my God,he was bonkers,
(C) Livvi
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
Lifelines spiral past the unwary conformist
conforming to a type they read of in the papers
and now preaching someone else's mind as gospel
while their own was lost so long ago in an ocean of stereotypical.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Like stray dogs in suburbia we wander.
We once knew a path in our distant dog-year past
one our owners walked us down,
dragging us nowhere fast.
It was catholic school teachers,
conformist preachers
and all the other tame creatures who took us on our way.
We walked on their time,
to the beat of a drum our paws weren't made to pound.
And we were dragged by a noose (otherwise known as a leash)
but their language is not our language
so while I called it what it is
they called it keeping me safe.
What the masters don't know
is that sometimes they leave the wrong door open
and a fence in the yard or a parental guilt trip
feels about as big as a crack in the sidewalk to jump over
when the street looks like a filthy paradise
where things like loud are louder,
fast is faster,
scary, scarier,
and reality, realer.
Now we're never in any rush
because anywhere and everywhere is home
so simply staying in doesn't feel so bad.
Routine is no longer in our vocabulary.
Vocabulary is no longer in our collection of words
and our collection of words is no longer so clean.
We wander because ideas described to us as garbage
taste better than the textbook kibbles-n-bits
and even though it's not served hot
or in a bowl with our names on it
the fact that we found it ourselves
feels better than having our tummies rubbed
or making the grade.
None of this is to say that the old house
will never be home again.
Doggy doors are always open
and winters are always cold.
So once I've had enough of life's streets
teaching me more important things
than rolling over or playing dead,
things like knowing tricks don't always come with treats,
we might just go back inside.
And returning won't be our loss
because we'll be walking back in with unclipped claws for the first time
and with all our baby teeth and naive fears gone,
we just might bite.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
I may only be seventeen years old, but I can already tell you this
that I am sick and tired
I am sick of the people who are judgmental and the people who are unkind
The people who tell Atheists they are going to hell and the people who mock Christians for wanting something to believe in
I’m sick of the hateful way people speak to each other and how everyone tries to form some kind of negative opinion about one another
I’m sick of the bullies in school who drive kids to suicide
and the parents who never taught them to be kind
I’m sick of macho boys thinking its cool to hate and easy girls with zero self-esteem
but more than that I'm sick of the society that made them feel this way
I’m tired of the snobs who turn up their noses at self-expression and of the hipsters frowning upon the so called conformist squares
I’m tired of making my own life choices based on a fear of someone else’s negative reaction I’m tired of people who look for the flaws in my life instead of basking in the beauty of their own.
I am fed up with people who complain about the clinically depressed and the people who spitefully use their own rain cloud to block out the sun
I’m fed up with people who don't know how share and people who take advantage of their friends
I’m fed up with cheaters, liars and the inconsiderate
All in all I am fed up with cruelty itself
It serves no purpose other than to blind people from the beautiful reality of our lives
Hatefulness needs only to be replaced by love and acceptance and then perhaps there will be an overall higher level of happiness
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
my reincarnation is that of a treasured cup
i’m almost entirely certain that my death will play a role in the cup’s creation
whether it be the clay I molded my alien hitch hiking signs into
or its maker lays back and reads in a hammock the same hours I do
just half way around the world
once my soul has leaked and drained through hell’s piping system
and what’s left escapes through condensation
the clouds will carry me to a bazaar
where the ceramic painting class is struggling to use oils
with rainy weather
in ******* up the work of most attendees
several of them will hide me in backs of cupboards
until they move or my soul dies of dust
one, if god allow two
painted mugs
are repeatedly stacked with layers of sediment
coffee, *****
tea, *****
coffee
tea with *****
a cigarette accidentally
my father should feel proud to know
his son’s vices followed him through the afterlife
that i got a nice home
that i accepted leaving parts of my soul in old cupboards
(Dad), i didn’t mean to contact the aliens so recklessly,
and i feel like I have to get off my *** if i read too much
i’m sorry i thought smoking was non-conformist
you’re right, i lied a couple of times
it cost just as much integrity as you said it would
i know i will do much better as a treasured cup
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 1:47 PM UTC
Mirror mirror, on the wall
Who’s the most rebellious of them all?
Leader-types?
Jocks?
Cheerleaders? Oh my…
Or is it the band nerds?
Or the kids in the corner getting high?
Nowadays it’s cooler to take the non-conformist rout
But then that becomes conformity,
Not rebelling to any degree
If we are all going against the grain,
What is a non-conformist?
A drinker?
A smoker?
An artist?
A musician?
Somebody trying to be different?
But then people think
Drinker becomes a bad influence.
Smoker is automatically a grimy kid.
Artists are too dramatic.
Musicians symbolize arrogance.
Different becomes attention seeking.
There really are no true rebels until you look at those quiet observers
The kids who refuse to drink,
Smoke,
Act out,
Draw attention to themselves
They become rebellious
But only by not rebelling
So do these things make me a rebel?
Or do they make me Me?
Now do we see the flaws
In our society?
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Change tackles a broad spectrum of life.
You change your hair, you change your underwear, you change your shoes.
How the hell could someone change their Personalities in the blink of an eye.
Can some one so thoughtful and sensitive turn into such a **** with the turn of one sentence phrase and punctuation.
She storms in on her high horse ready to take the world by storm with her fury.
She may say im her world but what have i done to deserve such punishments.
I asked a Question.
The fatalities of words and sentence structures leave a gaping hole in the ego and sense of trust.
Sense of what is right and wrong cuz what is right by all does not apply to her.
Her mind twists and bends to form views and morals that not even a twisted fairy tale can concoct.
What she fights for doesnt fit the way of the world.
She believes in things that will never happen, that make no sense. She fights for views that will leave her fighting forever.
She is a non conformist but she conforms to stereotypes that go against her better thinking.
The way she used to think.
Stress has got her in a headlock, cutting off her brain's circulatory flow of intelligent words and clean blood.
She inhales.
Breathes in a mixture of smoke and unclean thoughts.
Yea, she can stop.
She's walking corruption.
Digesting poison in the pit of her stomach killing the butterflies she claim died.
Yea they died.
In a fiery pit of lies and hypocrisy that gets you nowhere.
She tells me her worst thoughts and wishes but her honesty doesnt justify the unjust actions that go against who she was.
Who is she becoming?
Someone who is dependent on drugs and drinks to make her happy Cuz she doesnt have the ***** to go against the grain and
Stick to her guns and stay clean and fresh,
Keeping her lungs pink and her brain free,
free to believe and grow with each intake of air not smoke.
I hate to see it happen but she is just like the others.
**** views take the form of rolled up paper.
Not an application but a temptation.
Non conformists need not apply.
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 12:35 PM UTC
consuming cigarettes like candy at a theme park
shoveling, inhaling
before mom takes it away
incubating cool concrete
to hatch eggs of non-conformist
thoughts, theories, therapy
Costello glasses fog
with skinny-jeaned laughter and flannel
bellows only audible within the confines
of claustrophobic, humid basements
spilled with beer out of sun-lit
fear.
stay ****** ****** up and disconnected
feigning parental disregard and lacked motivation, except
to pet cats to the tune of vinyl
manicured with dust
seeping with lust
for the past
when rainbow-striped sweaters were cool.
pound the drums too loud for ears
sweating out anger and distrust
stuck to reconstruct or fit in
become the grey, the void, the in-between
the one thing you don't want.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
The sky looks like cigarette ashes in a puddle of milk,
and I, almost 22, am unsatisfied that I have not won a Pulitzer.
And I, on the borderline of delusion and confidence, am unsatisfied I am not crazy or cocky enough to submit to The New Yorker.
I hear the voices of the pastors,
telling me that God heals all.
They say 'He' is the only absolute.
The people raise their hands towards the water-stained ceiling,
as if He'll push his arms through the copper-colored scabs and save them.
Grabbing their wrists and cooing,
I am the remedy to the anxiety of death.
I am six foot one and French, Irish, Cherokee,
some sort of Anglo-Saxon,
and a lost **** in a drowning garden.
I think about all those who had to ****
in order to make my cheekbones,
eyebrows, lips, and ****
I think about how I'm good at *** and bad when it comes to forgiving too easily.
I wonder how I can sweat on another body,
but only feel naked when I have to be myself.
I watch the elderly chant words:
****** ****** **** and Half-Breed.
I study if their dry lips reflect the hate in their eyes.
Not all are like this,
but I am surrounded by tables of them,
as I pretend to be Christian,
just to get ahead.
I don't speak,
just sit like an unfilled bubble,
waiting to be marked out by graphite.
I feel like a **********
I wish I had a Pulitzer.
The sky looks like a stretched grape,
covered in kisses of ******
And I, white American conformist,
am unsatisfied
that I have succumbed to the American Dream.
I wish I had a Pulitzer,
I wish I had my mom and dad.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
I think I’ll drop guitars
Watch them fall and crack
Strangers would pick them up
And pluck a broken tune
Upon their broken necks
And sit with broken bones
Singing broken words
Their minds broken long ago
By ********** politics
Crushing voice and body alike
Breaking bones into conformist shapes.
Their broken dreams
May yet be given
Wings of grace and flight
Their broken eyes
Might just yet see the light
And perhaps,
Perhaps,
There’s still some hope
For these bones
To heal some.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
Sugar nightmares haunt children
Nancy harlequins cane them
Oh, child of mine
your life you did,
away,
sign.
Force fed familiarity with already branded emotions,
irregular realities and clouded surreal formalities,
so very many humans’ form dichotomies
out of our shared mute gray;
spinning constant self-important prose.
So very many humans share so much,
so little,
not often
doing little to soften
all of their emotional blows
trying hard to strike enigmatic pose.
Oh, child of mine
the heart of utilitarian method
has receded in incredulous fashion
followed by authoritarian apologies;
the majority is not icecream people
spreading simple good thought,
but generations fraught
with trivial conformist ideologies.
We are all hiding our seams
with creative masks
and self created tasks.
Oh, child of mine
your prescription reality is revealing itself as Atlantis,
sinking and shuddering into Quaaludes
with frightening psychotic interludes.
Emotions paint
stained lurid faces,
dancing with
ludes effecting movement,
nudes of swaying and repose.
You arose deeming so much rightfully yours
waltzing through seemingly already opened doors.
Holy curb their anti-Christ
Consider your aging soul
Oh, child of mine
Belief of awareness in action
understand the probability of dissatisfaction,
Stop!
treating the moment as a bleak bridge to the next inaction.
Eventually ponderous thoughts form
resembling an orrery,
an incessantly philippic story
orchestrates your oleaginous personality.
Oh, child of mine
Youth flees and your mind
takes once again to the seas,
a vexing penumbra of perception.
Bathos permeates the fathoms of an obstreperous life
and if you still care,
lament that this meaningless congeries
of moments
inspires only delusion,
no disillusionment.
Eventually a lilting threnody
leading 'tween burning pews of proposed serenity
and the following bumping callithump
will firmly stamp you into black infinity.
Oh, child of mine
You've used the switch
too much
too often
coupled with lofty scoffing
giving the innocent up as offering
to the
mechanical engine
of organic creation.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
A misfit becomes a conformist
A conformist because a misfit
A rebel ,
unapologetically fit
A rebel A misfit
Fit to become a conformist
Yet A misfit
Misfit
Or
Fit
A conformist A misfit
A misfit A conformist
A rebel A misfit
A misfit A misfit
Spin the wheel
Who is fit
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC
Thoughts are deadly
Thinking of you is like clawing at the raw insides of my cheeks
Heat rising thought the layers of my skin
And licking my throat
Hot coffee I down
Assuming it'll drown my brain
But it only adds to the passion
The ice cold that envelopes my heart
Placing a stamp in the opposite corner
Of the pre-assigned box
Mailing a pumping heart through post
An unconventional love letter
A cigarette burning
The glowing stub tracing images on my arms
Unintentional tattoos
Salty cheeks
Playing cards reflected in diamond tears
I play my heart across the
Green velvet table
Unintentional paper cuts
Bed sheets full of blood ink
Poetry and love songs scratched from dark dreams
By rusty fingers and mascara
Bruised knees creak as they bend
Facing in opposite directions
Ankles kissing through unstable skates
Shaking hands braid damp hair
Bitten pens bleed ink down my throat
By now my blood must run with ink
My own beating drum my best work
Cracks through time
And whispers through space
Only tempt me to trace the freckles on your legs
I use empty bottles of wine for mirrors
Apply my third coat of blood red lipstick
I used to think the moon followed me
I used to think if I shone a flashlight I could climb up
And I was scared someone would turn off my staircase
My bones shattering like the weakest diamonds
Dilated pupils paired with a racing pulse
My love song beating
Tapping my fingers on the coffee table.
Morse code screaming I love yous.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
The oppression of life can be sweltering
For as it is with responsibility
Not all directions are chosen via choice
Nay, sometimes we can feel as slaves
Bound to a way of opposition
Against the natural progression
That would otherwise define happiness
Nature, therefore becomes operative
In the language of experience
As from childhood to adolescence
We are free to live and choose and fail
All-the-while learning from each
What it means to be a unique
Individual from the herd that
Silently stalks its prey
Patiently waiting to strike
With its conformist claws
Coated with such vile poison
That the freedom we once had
Becomes a shuddering hallucination
Quickly fading into the obscure
And routine dance of the day to day
Operations that progresses the opposite
Impression of oppression
The heat is unbearable
Just ask the sweat dripping
Drip...
Drip...
From your forehead
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
*Beneath the facades of meticulous composure
Rehearsed mannerisms that are etiquette conformist
And Mechanized body language are underbellies
Immune to society’s manipulation
Storms rage continuously and incessantly
To one’s chagrin and no recourse to assuage
The emotionally grim state of affairs
In sight on the expanse horizon of chance
Feeling and emotion
Have a mind of their own
Which society with its immense
“Instruments of power”
Can’t effectively control
But still the bird’s wings are
Clipped
Whether by chance or design
Is an issue reserved for the deities
That’s if they do exist.*
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 6:03 AM UTC
Revolution in a bottle,
realization in rebellion.
Unexplained, a recreation.
Never a conformist,
radical mind,
the best kind.
Stand up, stand out,
stand tall, stand strong.
Show the world,
the right in wrong.
Be the change you want to see,
state of mind,
free.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
Know-it-all revelation celebration deflated with a
"no you ******* don't"
Cartesian cliche quotation.
So imagine mom's elation when she finally shut the **** up and moved up in conformist ranks
set trends and bred friends.
Thanks!
Thanks friends. Without you I'm just some pearly whites,
a sundress and a skewed perception of what is wrong and what is right
Future bright, like some little paper lantern glowing
but if the flame kisses pulp than than just gulp and take up sewing.
Because you're growing with the notion you're just some fish up in the ocean attracting fish nets with fishnets floatinghopingchoking
Choking on your words over 3 syllables it's a drag
I'm feeling bad
for the fact that I'm a man
**** you dad.
A slight ephebophillic fascination for the fairy folk
Till she spoke, and ruined the illusion I was going for
Little girls turned shiny objects
auctioned off to flyest bidder
Quit her after several children, physical evidence you did her
Hit her too, I feel the burden bared by my sister,
hung on the bottom rung just because her organs are within her.
teenaged girls are wasted on the their Y possessed cohorts
***** and ****** so guess what? your mother was a ***** too
Our system's banging **** ******* "get money" funny we weren't singing that song getting tucked in by our mommys
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
we really ****** up this time, huh
--a quick chuckle--
figure it's all worth it in the end
take another drink
smile
I wish I could've killed the *******
my **** eye hurts
then again
what would that have done?
all in fun. all in fun
people are dying
souls are starving
without anything to survive on
while I get old
and fat
figure it's not worth it in the end
what ever is?
die young, kid,
save yourself
lord knows its better to be a martyr
for a fool's cause
than a used up old conformist
spitting and ******** himself
atop a retirement fund
wish I could've killed that *******
but then no more options
no turning back
and that's never worth it
oh well
seems we really
****** up this time
people are dying
watching 'em struggle
and strangle
no more soul
no more soul
nothing left in the tank
and wish I could've
killed that *******
but he got the best of me
and there are
kids dying somewhere
and there are
souls starving somewhere
take me instead
wish it would've helped
then again
what would that have done?
left them to mourn another one
all in fun. all in fun.
Dieu ait pitié de mon âme
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC