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sitting
                     in the quagmire of her self contempt
                     a flame ignites beneath
                     the blackened caldron


like
                      a frog
                      set to cook in a *** of tepid water

she
                      was clueless
                      she was being devoured
                      from the inside out
the things we do to ourselves...
Keith W Fletcher Sep 2016
All I really wanted
Is someone who needs me
That's all I really want
I play the game
With such precision
But I don't enjoy the hunt

You come around
With your fancy persuasion
And try to stay awhile
You tried to be
My judge and jury
And put my love on trial

Don't try to cross no burning bridges
Don't cross examine me
Don't try to cross no open spaces
Don't try to cross wire me

I'll come to order
When I'm good and ready
Don't try to make me rush
You know the answers
That I'm gonna give you
Won't really tell you much

Take what you get
I'll give you that much
To keep you satisfied
I  have no defense
When it comes to hurtin
I keep it locked inside

I've got no defence
Whe n it comes to  hurtin
The prosecution rests
You bound me over
As your own solution
Even though I had confessed

Don't try to cross. no open spaces
Don't try to cross wire  me
Dont't try to cross no burning  bridges
Don't cross-examine me !!
Yaya Dec 2018
I never ate meat—
But children should.
So contemptuously
You served it up.
And I sat at the table
cold and shivering—
from a lack of warmth—
Staring at its cooked flesh
Wondering how to get out of this mess.

Until, salvation brushed my legs
With his happy, hungry tail...
childhood memories of step-grandparents
Viridian Nov 2018
i'm not surprised things turned out this way
i know you too well
i know your story, i know what you're like
i only remember them because of how i loved your story, how i loved what you're like
but it's unsurprising that it's exactly what undoes your puppet strings
you fall limp to the floor, wishing that at least one of the strings could noose around your wooden stick neck
and i can't say that i didn't expect this
because i know you, i loved you, and now i can't stand you
Begot Intentions can impurify
Unsolicited Charity does attempt
Even much as a Pickled Song can try
Bites back at you; And bills you for Contempt
What now the Rage of Imperial Process
Punishes the Dreader to stock and refill?
Nowadays you stick to perform your Best
Later on you sit by the Window-Sill
Still, check this Stubborn Loyalty in me
Then decide if Ignorance you forgot
My Words mean Truth; Even if Force-Believe
Just to show your Radio, the Model-Lot.
Still Deaf, eh? Even when the Snake has cast,
Flashing films on such scales you know will pass.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Jack Jenkins Apr 2016
If I ruled the world, I would be,
Not a benevolent leader, nor,
Would I be a tyrannical leader.

I would be something much unexpected and, hopefully, humble.

You see, I would be a quilt maker. Not of fabric and thread, though.
I would stitch the different cultures together, leaving each individual one unique, yet united by a common thread.

I would sit with my diplomatic needle and peaceful stitching and lead those whom hold contempt for one another see the other's perspective.

I would show them that,
The world isn't in black and white,
It's in full, high-definition color.
So let's celebrate unity,
Equality,
Individuality,
And uniqueness.

Because in the final chapter,
We all already rule the world.
It's up to us to thread ourselves to each other,
Or pull ourselves apart by the seams.
//On acceptance//
This poem got me a tie for first place in a poetry contest I entered. :)
Thus on my genesis Love's fought Regret
My Ardent Sire whose Merits installed
These English Gifts whom I have thanked just yet
Carried Misconstruction; And docked the Fine Toll
This that Penance be my Honest Attempt
Yet still besieged in case of Bad Timing
The Gold I carry an Issue I Contempt
Will try once more to Win his Best Blessing
My how the Fortunes some drive the Mind mad
And took my Heart back to a Wildman's State
This cannot continue; Much have I had
Sponge this Circled Self back to my Constraint.
The Human in me, the Cause of my Lone
And Sister's Reason I banged on the Phone.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Exhausted, drained of all energy,
Seeking to fill this void with life that will fit.
The pain and drudgery of all has become almost too much to bear.
My soul screams out for change and relief.

Eyes closed in torment, wounds bleed with frustration and contempt;
Closed in a jail, a circle that never ends.
Life without living it has become; entombed within this existence
Isolated and alone, I have been left to die.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Adilson Smith Apr 2018
I once saw a ruffian young
A would be brute
At home, no doubt,
In the grubby grecian clubs
So unworthy of their legacy.

The tilt of chin, and cocksure slant of eye
Told of a life most lived
In unimpressed contempt.
But then he met his girl, and,

The crafted affect cracked like plaster;
No more the aping swagger
Nor the bumptious over pluck
Instead,

An unhid grin.
And an unhid soul.
And the rapid intuition
Peculiar to lovers.
#love
Patrick Mar 2018
I am a ghost.
For I exist but do not live.
We take these bodies as if some host,
That is not us; Not even close.

I continue moving through the waves of contempt, battering against my soul like waves against some ancient ship.

This old vessel is coming close to a breach; What it needs is to find some beach. The rough waters of life are tearing it apart, turning brilliant blue to as black as my heart.

Poisoning every drop that washes against the body of a man who cannot ever win. If he does nothing he will surely drown, but any effort will also bring those around down.

So this ghost haunts the vessel, and at least for a time, he watches the world slowly fade to black; as he exists in a life upon which he turned his back.
Kewayne Wadley Nov 2016
I can't unlove because I am
Impatient, selfish.
I love as if I cannot be hurt.
Going on as if nothing is wrong.
I cannot unlove because I know not how.
I spend my nights awake dreaming of how everything should have been.
The speeches I have amongst myself
Lost in complete darkness.
Accepting the sound of my voice as an I told you so.
Seeking a dream that seems so far away.
I can't unlove because I accept disappointment.
The contempt of putting others first without fear.
I truly believe I cannot unlove because I am in love.
Young again in thought running wild, free.
I consider it a perk.
Being the only other person I know how to be.
No longer embarrassed of facing the opposite end of the mirror.
Finding that the most important things bring the most smiles.
I am far from perfect
But I cannot unlove as if I made some sort of mistake.
Purposely mistaking myself as a fool
Tammy M Darby Feb 2017
Rest your weary body
Drink from my golden goblet
The most delicate and finest of wines
A potion of wild raspberries, bitterness and jeering contempt
Assault the light that dare not shine

It is the elixir of a dispassionate heart
If you possess no fear
Taste the confectionery of sadness call
Where love frightened evades approach
Upon remembrance of the long dark fall

Sip from the golden goblet
Taste the cruel sweetness of pain
Damnation to those who denounce the motive behind the actions
Until the bed of anguish you have lain

But these rare wines have no equal in quality
Defiled by evil and cursed with shame
The unquenchable thirst for blood taints the golden rim
As the murderous night slew the rising of the day

So lift high the golden goblet and drink  
An immortal taste of time
Accompany me into the world of melancholy
Where is served the most of exquisite wines
Come close now the hour when words become whispers
Demanding recompense for the crimes.

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Feb. 8. 2017
Written for the Monster
Oh to be self absorbed.
Floating through life thinking you’re the only one worth giving a **** about.
I’d feel sorry for you if you hadn’t suggest it yourself.
Control your illusions of grandeur and I’ll control my contemptuous ramblings.
You’re so vain.
You probably think this poem’s about you.
Sorry for the slightly aggressive tone, just needed to get some feelings off my chest about some of the people in my school. It’s been playing on my mind recently and what better way to release those feelings than through some good old fashioned poetry XD
ryn Sep 2014
These hands have clawed with blind eyes
Chipped nails on fingers working on knots and ties

Fingers that recklessly point to reproaches and blames
Never to self, righteousness through arrogant claims

Now aware, these palms have covered my face in contempt
For they've partook in activities; indulgent and unkempt

Rubbed skin raw on life's coarse sandpaper
Ever searching for the coming of the unanticipated saviour

Broken flesh hopeful for newly formed skin
Like tattered souls pleading for absolution of sin

Only skin deep but unfavourable experiences do fester
Expecting the proverbial infection to blow over

Here they are, held unclenched and riddled with pocks
Weathered and sore from time's infinite mocks

Maybe thereafter, will be awaited healing
Perhaps soon after, I will be forgiving

See now... Hands faced up, parted as halves
Asking not for alms but instead your acceptance as salve

Take into yours, these knackered, gnarled up palms
Let your porcelain-like touch relieve like life reforming balm
Logan Robertson May 2017
Lost Love


He remembers that day
many sad years ago
it was sunny out,
but soon a storm raged.

He returned home early
from work,
eager
to rest and nurse a cold.
Eager
to see his gorgeous wife
fix him a delicious soup
and give loving care,
a remedy not.
He caught a surprise.

Was it then a hallucination?
To see her ex's car
in front of their house,
fanning the flames in his heart?
Or to imagine the house shaking,
or to hear love noises howling
from the rafters of contempt,
as her fireplace warmed tempest.
He sure hoped then... it had been a misfire
it wasn't.

He slowly opened the front door,
walking decrepit and sad,
like he was in hospice care.
He could see the final script
playing out,
more so the tragic ending
the trail of clothes,
her ex-boyfriend's scent,
calamity,
and approaching closer
the devil speaking louder.

He opened the bedroom door
to their parts caught in honey jars
and scarlet red on his tainted wife
over bed sheets of shame.
Their eyes catch,
both flush, and tearful,
as breathing stopped,
his melancholy eyes asking why?
Why?
What about the future  lily pods,
our family, house, kids
... and you sell out.
What about being fresh
out of college with our dreams,
passion and honor...us.
What about the bonds,
pinky swears, pricking of blood
marital vows.
Her eyes had no answers.
She cried, loudest
as her ex-boyfriend bolted
not before passing the mill.

He closed her door for good
that mournful day,
dismissing darkness,
opening his wrath for her
in his mind, yet
what words or light can be exchanged?

Uprooted and lost, he walked
scarred over and over
by her promise and lost love.

That was thirty years ago
and he still walks with her
ghosts, and it still pains.

LR-5/4/17
SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
Book down both my idleness and memories,
Come the 52nd summer, through ship to ship
The last sail from city to city, the perturb To Contempt
Thy will at time remain snub, hath my time being
Hoaxed with an irony to bare my dream, for my family,
my slug Hit the deepest of my wish, with an arm to an
Armor, though my gentle verse never indulge volitionary,
What’s Worth in me hath grown, neither my dream
Extant, to whom shall I sell? Thy portrait reckon without
understanding The captivity my dreams, to whom
shall I cry My bootless fate?, Hast thee forsaken  me?
Thou art trouble me not , Thee Succeed  anyone
In an unflagging quest for a word, though art’s will
For sinners, saint and believers never change
Kathleen M Oct 2018
little white envelope
sealed with a promise
just like the others
open to find means to a better end
no bitter ends will you let begin
colourful notes meant to read
i love you
words not easily spoken
through clenched teeth
jaws locked
rusted with time
years spent unhinged
uncontrolled
spoiled words spoken between lips
unforgiving winds
their destruction still left to rebuild
tension releases by passing annum
moments spent in silence
make way for healing
and days left to heal with you are unknown
days left are precious
words are simple
beholden to their potential
barriers thin but exist nonetheless
not in contempt
but in habit
detox made easier by bullet holes
ghosts
of past attempts to infiltrate
your kingdom
of fatherhood
Terry O'Leary Aug 2014
The darkness, now descending, floods the city as it dies
while shadows lurk in legions 'neath the looming Evil Eye.
Its frozen stare envelops all, it penetrates and pries,
denouncing loathed dissenters to the keepers in the sky.

One’s inner thoughts are well descried before they’ve passed one’s lips
and cruelly crushed with grim contempt twixt despots’ fingertips;
but if no taboo-idea’s found, with which to come to grips,
the stymied Eye dispenses pus as fabrication drips.

The Eye peers down upon us now, to conquer and control,
and mark our every movement, whether hiding in a hole
or preening like a purple parrot perched upon a pole.
Our welfare and our happiness? No, certainly not the goal.

While phantoms fade, then reappear within the urban sprawl,
the gloom (adorned with Evil Eyes which pierce the livid pall)
pervades the ache and agony that poets sometimes scrawl
of plenitude to penury, how life endures the fall.

And should the herd dare whisper words of freedom's fragrant bloom
or murmur sighs of worriment at earth's impending doom,
the Evil Eye will squint a bit at those who so presume,
condemning nascent unchained thoughts to wither in the womb.

The Evil Eye bores everywhere, a tattletale to Kings,
who scrutinize their puppet people, strumming on their strings,
extracting secrets of their souls like spiders plucking wings
that flutter with the hangman’s knot as the corpse of freedom swings.

Yes, Princes rule with tungsten fists wherever they may roam
and sip from golden goblets, nectar, sweet as honeycomb
while peons (stripped of mind and soul) stray never far from home,
with faces 'neath the iron boot, ****** deep below the loam.

And peasants pass, parading by to fill the golden urn
with pennies for the afterlife wherefore the faithful yearn,
though screams of babes with empty eyes are never of concern
to those who covet silver coins, eyes cold and taciturn.

To hide the pains of purgatory, far-flung distant shores
(on islands of containment) cache the dingy dungeon doors
and inquisition water-boards that buoy their holy wars,
while sandmen drape our eyes with dust, with rainbow metaphors.

We’ll know the party's over when there's little left to eat
and all the learned scholars, lean, stay silent when they meet -
the Eye, withal, will spawn distrust on matters indiscreet.
The signs are all around us - even sheep no longer bleat.

                        Epilogue
One sightless seer scans the skies and mourns the heretofore.
Nine limbless men descend the stairs to find there is no floor.
Eight tongueless women babble, telling tales of nevermore.
Four earless children drown within the ocean's muted roar.

When hope becomes defiance, ask: Will bedlam soon arrive?
Will doves appear above us all? Or drones to guard the hive
while fed with milk and honey by the Queen and kept alive
to gut the gale below them? Will we let the Eye survive?
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