Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"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.
0
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
The Optimists Guide to Conversationalism:
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.
Continue reading...
6
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.
0
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:04 AM UTC
Gentleman
#*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*#
0
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
Aditya
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”)
0
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
Man of Action
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?
0
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
Shallow
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
0
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
Infinite
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.
0
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
idolatry
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.
0
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
" suggest an edit " ( a coffee-face )
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 *****
0
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
Miss Perfect
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.
0
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
A Thank You to A Kind Gentleman
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
0
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
I am not a ____________
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
Continue reading...
40
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.
0
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
Halloween on 1...2...3...
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.
Continue reading...
8
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
0
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
The Diary Of Lord Kellington (9)
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
Continue reading...
21
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
0
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
tea
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
Continue reading...
66
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.
0
Dec 25, 2009
Dec 25, 2009 at 8:44 AM UTC
PHILOSOPHER OF MODERN ART - AYAD GHARBAWI
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.
0
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
Conversation Analyst
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.
Continue reading...
25
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!!
0
Feb 20, 2024
Feb 20, 2024 at 12:00 AM UTC
You Are A Gem Of A Friend
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
0
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
Quantifiable Introversion
"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.
0
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 2:00 AM UTC
Miscommuni--
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.
0
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
Plain Stuff For Easy Living
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
0
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
me being a conversationalist (for once)
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.
0
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 4:00 AM UTC
Nocturnal Remission
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
0
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
Omni
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.
0
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:34 AM UTC
Pasay 1733H
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.
0
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC
Absinthe and Jenny