"conversationalist" poems
The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation.
The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath.
Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-ass what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation.
Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind.
This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial.
Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
You enjoy his gestures
gentle and formal,
Soft spoken conversationalist,
your ideal man.
He opens a door for you,
then lets you go first.
He offers a chair for you,
then gets you a drink.
You love his choice of clothes,
clean and simple.
His perfume pleases you,
perfect masculine smell.
He doesn’t make advances,
never asks for a kiss.
He keeps his hands in place
to keep your virtue safe.
My dear, beautiful friend,
feel safe as you can be.
This wretched, horrible man,
is in love with my brother.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:04 AM UTC
#*He is quiet and confident
Always does what is right
Quite a conversationalist
When relevant
Believes in keeping to himself
In a place of unknowns
Knowledge and wisdom his strength
Diligent and optimistic an achiever in life
Simple and good at heart
Understands and complements mine
Loves romantic songs
I am just the opposite
Can’t stand any
Retro is the only station, we listen to together in the car
Has little understanding or
interest of what I write
Yet, always listens to/ reads my scribbles
Our choices and tastes opposite as can be
Not, when it comes to matters of heart*#
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
Every day I see this guy pass by my door,
he never steps off the path.
His hair speaks of his woe.
His steel eyes arrange the sky into a box,
the blue is not enough to keep him idle,
he requires the chains of logic.
It keeps him grounded when he could be flying.
“Why should I fly,” he says,
“It’s much too cold for me anyway.”
“Wear a jacket” I might declare.
He would reply, “I don’t wish to sweat through
my sensible clothes.”
(Only twenty dollars on sale.)
He is much too sensible to be any fun,
but fun is not all there is.
“There is science” he would suggest
If we ever were to talk,
I know he would be an excellent conversationalist
His dusty shoes tell of his wariness,
His jacket of his adventures.
(He keeps dust on his clothes to speak for his cleverness.)
“Conversation is for the simple-minded,” he would say.
“I prefer books,” would be my reply.
He would have nothing to say then,
(He doesn’t like conversation anyway.)
but he’d be too logical to let me know
Of his human blunder and illogical flash.
So he spoke to me of his action figure collection.
(“Most extensive, I’m sure”)
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
Can't you feel my screaming heart?
I feel all yours and it's unbearable
To know everyone's intention may seem ineffable
Though my passion is emotion and empathy my art
Dwelling silent in a crowded room
To the right a pursuit of lust
And my left a lack of trust
Empty grins with their facade and doom
Another item has been stolen
My peers in an unknowing uproar
I see the culprits guilt pour
From his weary eye and coven
The ***** swoons the love of an unworthy patron
She gazes at me with a tempting question
Attempting to construct my envy and affection
My will is stronger than that seducing notion
The lonely man makes a joking inquisition
All the rest see it as a laughable gesture
I look with sad eyes to see his slouching posture
He wants to die in his pathetic position
The muscle bound dunce smacks his lips
Glorified as the acrobatic conversationalist
Strapped men in shackles and girls can't resist
His compensated shortage of yays and yips
A quiet smile looks on with a perfect mask
Playing pretend with an inglorious burden
Faking a life inside of her chaotic garden
Of hollow theatrics in which she basks
There goes the lad with his flippy hair
The little ladies want a picture with the fellow
Oh you're so rad the flocking lasses bellow
And, you wonder why I don't seem to care?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
Over time I've realized I'm the type of person who can draw anyone in
Mysterious, yet comforting to be around
An altruistic listener, an effective conversationalist, a trusted confidant
Modest as I may be, I do understand where I stand with most people
I'm the person you call when you're having a bad day, or need a ride, or even to bask in the glory of your successes;
a promotion at work, a new fling
I'm that person
The person to go to with your something;
your need, or your news
Intriguing from afar
Many want to delve into the depths
Uncover the story within
Until they realize that there's more
There's always more
Like a black hole pulling you in
Only to find that it's expanse goes on indefinitely
After a while my quips, my quirks
become exhausting
To others
No one can fathom traveling the distance
So they don't
They turn back
I willingly release them
of my gravitational pull
Then we both float on
In opposing directions
It's funny how one can be too much
Yet somehow, never enough
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
it's true
they did love you once.
feared you too, but
maybe that's the same thing,
gave you
roast pigs and animal pelts
and you didn't even have to ask.
a pretty good arrangement.
now
i'm the only one that sticks around
and even then only
when i'm bored.
i'm taunting and i'm cruel and you, love,
are not a great conversationalist
but
it evens out.
so i get to
take jabs at you
til you're frothing at the mouth,
like seafoam, briny
shaking valleys and hills with
your anger. and i can't help but laugh
at you. you,
with your dusty ruby eyes
(that lie now in a museum
somewhere
because the white men walked into your temples and plucked them right out -)
and your stone paws,
roughly hewn, mossy,
ugly.
we laugh and laugh
about what you lost
between galileo and darwin and euler,
so many years and the
backs of men.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
Hello fellow poets and artist Finding this site made me smile. I look forward to reading everyone's poems and art.
"Let tomorrow sleep and peacefulness will turn to you. Free yourself and go with your razor sharp emotions. Even the twisted flow is the proof that you're alive. I invite the tearfully-indulging sorrow."
Dreamer..made the best of being a misfit...I have a close bond with Emily Dickinson.. she speaks the most to me.. I'm an Aquarian.. I help people much as i can..
Sea salt and tentacle love letters scatter into my aromatic wind like snowfall in the Arctic. Prevalent. Soft, sweet layers of flowery smoke linger in my midnight lungs. Dark secrets revealed here. Passions unleashed.
To me the world is made of poetry spoken and unspoken
I apologize here and now for butchering your lovely language. Not my first
Doesn't Make Any Sense. Trying Hard To Be A Poet.
Under construction.
Don't stay too long, it's dark in here.
I'm not a good conversationalist, but feel free to message me still.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
I love the way you think you do no wrong
How you believe you are above the fray
Looking down your nose ready to stab, belittle, ridicule,
Always dressed to the tee, always perfect.
Perfect perfect perfect.
Perfect clothes perfect makeup perfect conversationalist and perfect
charm, if it suits you at that moment.
Yeah you
Perfect *****
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
Thank you for pulling me out of my silence
Into the world of other people for a moment.
It reminded me that my existence needs context
And that people can be something other than
Annoying background noise to my obsessions.
Thank You for ignoring the awkward silence,
And pretending that “uh, yeah”
Is an acceptable answer to any question.
Usually my obvious lack of eye contact
Would discourage the casual conversationalist,
But you took it as a challenge.
And it’s exactly what I needed.
Most of all,
Thank you for taking the time
To be kind to me,
A lonely misfit,
In an indifferent world.
And though it is not worth much,
You have my eternal gratitude.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
I am not a morning person
Sun glaring through the curtains, birds chirping on the tree
Such a pretty sight i know, but you know whats prettier? Sleep.
Wake me up when the sun's shining and i. Will. **** You.
Coffee doesnt do the trick, neither does breakfast
so just let me sleep in — it'll do everyone a favor
"good morning!" Says the starbucks barista who trys to make conversation with me and all the while i am wishing for my drink to come faster as to prevent any further contact with any human being
Good night
I am not a hugger
Being that close to someone makes me cringe
Maybe im just not all about that intimacy thing and showing affection
Also have you ever hugged a girl?
You feel their ***** against you especially when they hug suuuper tight
Or maybe im just really afraid to let my guard down
Which is hard because when people know you dont like hugs
and you actually need a hug
No one will give you a hug and you just learn to **** it up and accept that the only hugging youll ever get is from your teddy bear at night
I am not a good conversationalist
As i have concluded and confirmed with my friends
It is hard to keep a conversation with me
I think its because most of the actual conversation is happening in my mind and my mouth cant follow through
I get scared to speak most of my thoughs because im scared of what other people think
And that leads me to not saying anything at all and that leads them to think i am shy and awkward
So no matter if i say anything or i dont, i will be judged
And theeeen i met him
And he was everything i wasnt
He was a morning person, a hugger, and the best person you can spend hours talking to
Suddenly
I began getting up earlier than usual
I started to eat breakfast and have an actual conversation with laughter at 8 in the morning
I say good morning back to the starbucks barista and find that morning interactions with human beings arent so bad after all
He gave the best hugs — the ones that make you feel warm, safe, and protected you just wanted to hibernate in his arms
When i feel his muscles squeeze me, i feel my sadness squeeze out of me little by little
And the best part? He doesnt have *****
He is the number one person who can hold a conversation with anyone
He always finds something to talk about
And makes the worst jokes
I feel comfortable with him
Like i can say anything and he'd understand
So thank you, because of him, i am a morning person, a hugger, and a good conversationalist
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
I hate this holiday. I always have. Dressing up like someone else to cover up the monster I truly am has never been an ideal time for me. And trying to hit on the slutty girls with their fishnets and minuscule mini skirts has never been my scene. I’d rather spend the night having everyone dress up to who they truly are: the misogynist, the adulterist, the studious, the conversationalist...I’d rather not hid behind the disguise.
But I love the ghouls, and the ghosts, and the stories we tell ourselves to stay up late at night, reminding each other to check behind the shower curtains at 3am because, you never know, he could be in there.
He could be, or he could not be. You may never know. But it’s always better to check.
I love this holiday for the stories, both of history and of those of today, which we create in our liquor laden haze. The face-covered costumes, the ghoulish festivities, the next morning apologies... Oh, and pumpkin everything.
The horror filled movies and hay rides and walk-through-corn-mazes we subject ourselves to, all in the name of fun, of suspense. I love it, I love every second of it. Heart racing, adrenaline running, it’s life in a sense we can no longer find without the threat of true death behind it. And that’s likely why we do it, as we feel a need for this sense of adventure, of thrill, without the everlasting and promising black blanket of the true end lurking in the shadows
And tonight I went out, dressed to the nine’s, white shirt and tie, and watched as all those fishnet girls passed me by, boys in toe behind their masquerading lies while I smoked cigarettes on the sidelines. And I had my picture taken, and I had my face mistaken, and I couldn’t help but wonder
Isn’t it just all a lie?
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I love this holiday.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
Tonight is for reflection.
Not the kind found in a mirror.
Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine.
Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical.
One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus
my new clothes.
Let's see...reflection.
While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have been selfish. Not
once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur.
Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash.
Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller.
A dinner party!
For the intimates of intimates.
Let me see. Who to invite?
Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago.
Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No. She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed me right up.
I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of old age.
Hmm........
Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight.
Looks like I will be dining out.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
I didn't know you'd never fall like you did
feet in the air, palms on the ground
I didn't know you'd never make me feel like a kid
but I wanted to so I ran round and round
up and down, searching for the love I hope you kept hid
between dancing smiles and raining frowns
but it was fourteen plus two and two and two
my will was yet ready to trek to depths of the unending blue
when you pushed, i couldn't believe it to be true
leaving me to drown in the nonexistent idea of me and you
but we snap, flip back, run around the race track
to the same starting point, white flags waving surrender
to contagious conversationalist talking of extraneous happiness
tracing the blank novels of love tales never written
you've always been the captain of this ship
swearing you're too afraid to wreck it
but you sail us into the lands never sailed by experience
just to see the life unseen, im serious
and I have a feeling
we're aimless travelers
I have a feeling
we're destined passengers
I have a feeling
we'd never have a feeling
because we're terrified
of having a feeling
of dissapointments
of having a feeling
of failure
of having a feeling
that feelings could take us over
but we snap, flip back, run around the race track
to the same starting point, white flags waving surrender
to contagious conversationalist talking of extraneous happiness
tracing the blank novels of love tales never written
we could take the long way home
drive a little longer
just don't pull over, we can just roam
pass the passing seasons,
we'll just wander
through songs for all the wrong reasons
between the voices and instruments we can rest
just don't pull over, we have no reason
time is the test, the test is the exit exam
just don't pull over, cause im going to scram
running in the opposite direction
to a world where you can never read my ****** expressions
of pure affection
but we snap, flip back, run around the race track
to the same starting point, white flags waving surrender
to contagious conversationalist talking of extraneous happiness
tracing the blank novels of love tales never written
but it was time, i escaped the coy persuasion
it was mathematics, the perfect equation
of fourteen plus two plus a few and I lost count
and replaced it with a sensation
of unrequited friendship, our own sermon on the mount
a love stronger than I aimed when one met six
of trust bound tighter than welded steel
cause now we just laugh, skip past the oceans filled by hurt feelings
walking on the beach, looking at the beautiful view
of what was once me and you
but we snap, flip back, run around the race track
to the same starting point, white flags waving surrender
to contagious conversationalist talking of extraneous happiness
tracing the blank novels of love tales never written
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
PHILOSOPHER OF MODERN ART
Ayad Gharbawi
December 15, 1988 – Boston
When questions pose meanings surreal
The answers question themselves
We, in our homes
Homes of nowhere
We questioned
We hoped melodies could mean
Meaningful truths
Somehow
Go home, now
Your home
There are no hopes, nor homes,
Your lives
Are dying, slowly
Go home!
Pay the drinker
To go home
Pay the last conversationalist
Pay yourself money
Express a smile now
She sits in front of you
Standing there
Doesn’t she?
Boredom killed us now
Boredom killed art!
Unreal and surreal
Abstract and impressionist
Boredom killed art!
Your beloved and shallow art
Died, where
Humans died.
Dec 25, 2009
Dec 25, 2009 at 8:44 AM UTC
For the low low price of just being within' earshot,
the conversation analyst will run a full diagnostic on your conversation.
You know how that perfect comeback
feels, three weeks after
You didn't say it?
In training, representatives for Inbound sales listen to recordings of their own phone calls and critique them like Art majors in a studio class.
Our conversation analyst.
Looks at you like a shoe on the wall.
Unlike the psychology major, the conversation analyst will never share his results.
He'll just judge you.
Silently.
He doesn't speak.
His fourth grade english teacher taught him that the carpenters house is never finished.
She was referring to her husband, the carpenter, not finishing the renovations on their new home, but the conversation analyst heard it as a metaphor, and adopted it as a universal truth.
Much like a painting controls the path your eye travels the canvas, or the scientific process that goes into composing music,
the way you build rapport is one of those things that people don't realize can be an art form until they wittness it professionally.
Our conversation analyst considers himself Socio-passionate.
Which amuses him, when he deducts points from your conversation for not empathizing correctly.
Or not giving effective compliments by asking a relevant question afterwards.
The conversation analyst is not always mute. On special occasions such as first impressions he is a fine conversationalist.
You can meet the conversation analyst for the first time, as many times as you want.
If the carpenters house is never finished.
The conversation analyst
exemplar at listening,
Will never hear you.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
You are a gem of a friend
Whom it is very difficult to offend
I knew you as a colleague first
Your trustworthiness, is something to which I can completely attest
To work with, were you always fun
Because your mind was always open
You are a gem of a friend
Nothing gets past your clever mind
Not to mention, are you sweet as honey
Talking with you, is something I always enjoy
What I like about you the most
Is the fact, that when it cometh to speaking one's mind
You are undoubtedly one of the best
Because you always stand your ground
No matter what happens
Your courage is indeed immense
You are a gem of a friend
With whom it is not difficult to bond
Usually, no fan am I, of political discussions
However, for you can I make an exception
Imagine the fun we could have
Trashing the central government
I can already imagine your excitement
After all, you never shy away from a debate
A mere spark is enough
For your mind to ignite
Though your voice is the exact opposite of gruff!
You are a gem of a friend
To the world, are you a godsend
How do you manage your kids
Run the house
And work at the same time
Is something for which, an answer one cannot frame!!
Well, I do hope you take a pause
From time to time
Because you are indeed a hard worker
A great conversationalist and listener
And above all, a friend to remember!!
Yes, you are indeed a gem of a friend
With this, shall my poem end!!
Feb 20, 2024
Feb 20, 2024 at 12:00 AM UTC
I have grown rather fond of being alone
I have found myself to be sublime company
I like to be secluded
In a dimly lit apartment
With a blanket
And a kettle
With tea
And a book
And my thoughts of course
And I am somewhat of a brilliant conversationalist
But occasionally there dawns a time
When I have run out of clever things to say
To myself
And I have finished every book
And drunken all the tea
And then there comes a moment
When I am significantly less fond of being alone
And I miss you
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
"Do you see the sky?" I asked
as I waited for a response.
I waited,
and waited
and waited.
I realized that there wouldn't be one,
because the conversationalist
I speak to
(in my head)
has left.
The sun sets to the north of the mountains,
if you're standing in the front yard it's hard to see.
But I see it when I dream,
when I think of happier things,
I wonder why I feel so distant,
I wonder why when I pull my irises back into the socket where they sleep.
"Do you see the sky?" I asked
You responded, finally,
with the most dismal response one could conjur
"that I do."
When all I wanted,
was to share it with you.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 2:00 AM UTC
Since the man was living the slam
lifestyle, he decided not to write
the slam poem. His daughter was
discussing the slam conversations.
She was a conversationalist. The
man considered himself to be her
slam father. It was all right to be
careful and not get slammed for
work that was inordinately spontaneous.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
a girl wanted to read what I was writing today
she noticed that I've been writing poetry,
every day,
in choir class
as I was sitting there,
writing my feelings away,
she asked me what I was writing,
and I said " a poem"
and it went on from there
we talked about poetry and writing lyrics
its been the only conversation I've had all week that hasn't ended with me being scared
or anxious,
or mad,
and definitely feeling like I was going to cry
she's a nice kid, happy innocent, and then there's me
she said she wanted to read my poetry,
I said I couldn't
my poems are to personal,
i'm afraid I might let her read the wrong poem,
and she will take things to far
so, she said, " if you do write something you want to share with me, i'll read it"
and I went back to the darkness
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
Death dropped by last night.
I never expect him, but he was lonely and I was available.
What’s up, I asked.
Same old **** he said. You have no idea how hard this job is. Absolutely no one wants to see me. Ever.
Must be lonely.
Lonely, he said, you can’t imagine! Most of them die as soon as they see me.
Do you know hard that makes it to have a meaningful relationship? Or even get a date?
Death lit a cigarette, unafraid.
Oh, I can imagine.
Well, let me tell you; it’s ****** frustrating. Sometimes, I’d just like to cuddle, but I’m not into corpses. Yuck.
Death isn’t much of a conversationalist. Mostly he just whines. It’s all about him. He tends to ramble.
I just quietly let him talk. He did.
Have to be going, he said finally. Must meet the soon to be dead. Rush, rush, rush… and Santa Claus thinks he has it bad. Thanks for listening. See you soon.
No hurry, I replied.
I swear his missing lips smiled as he turned and left.
It took a while before I realized what I had just been spared.
Sometimes, it pays to be a good listener.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 4:00 AM UTC
woken by the cloaked coalition in the early mornings of spring
previous energy diminished on succeeding in infinite failure
that i can't complain or repair, how long is the string
that holds the superseded means of success to your
self annexed left to mature in a golden process
indifference fulfilling best dressed veneer polished
frightened conversationalist demolished hopeless hope-less
view on your own facetious breath of galactic knowledge
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
Pasay's no conversationalist,
unapologetic.
"Way sapayan, pastilan"
Ravenous snarl of
the carrier
The refined grit of
rusting fulcrum
The terse hammer
malingers,
The pompous talk of
carburetor
and the flagrant burst
of jetwash,
i am never grateful for these
subsequent cacophonies:
a steel orchestra. i could no
longer take the metaphysical spar of this hunted dialogue.
darkness weds the synagogue of
shadow and soon,
we will all drown in the rain.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:34 AM UTC
I had been sober for
awhile and was getting that
itch to drink.
I couldn't recall the
degradation and misery of
the last drunk a few months
earlier.
It was spring, and I was standing
outside of the flophouse, I was
staying at.
Just then, a big sunflower of
a woman walked by.
"Hi Jenny," I said.
We had a past.
Not much of one though.
It resembled a Dali painting that
had been soaking in the rain.
We ended up in a motel with a
bottle of Absinthe.
Jenny wasn't much of a drinker,
No problem, more for me.
Jenny wasn't much of a
conversationalist, and half-lit on
robust ***** neither was I.
I walked around the room talking
about Hemingway and Van Gogh,
Fitzgerald and Picasso.
Jenny wasn't interested in them.
She wanted me to score her some dope.
She said, "If you want this ***** you
will buy me an eight ball."
I didn't.
I wanted to write, but I was too drunk.
We wanted different things and neither
of us
found them that night.
And later at about 3 am when I got
up to **** I could have sworn I saw the
picture of Van Gogh on the box of Absinthe
laughing.
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC