"creepily" poems
I met a girl on the bus.
Well, I say met,
If your definition of met,
Is stared at creepily.
An hour of daydreaming,
An hour of imagining,
Your voice,
Your scent,
Your personality.
An hour of pure bliss,
And you were gone.
You will be missed.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
always the bridesmaid, never the bride
you have no idea how many times i cried
asking, "why me? why not me?"
well, for starters
i always oversleep
my eating habits are on repeat
i've worn the same clothes, same filth
for three days this week
i don't make an effort because i'm not going out
but no one asks me out because i don't make an effort
i write love poems i never send
i creepily covet people i consider friends
while my heart is stuck on the same old trend
hearts
yours and mine
your heart
pure and prone to breaking bones
my heart
crippled and casually crashing cars
the destruction duo
probably foreshadowing if i'm honest
i never get any rest
purple hues rise to the surface
furthermore, my life lacks any zest
and to top it all off
no matter how hard i've tried
i know i'll probably never be satisfied
so yeah
maybe that is why
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:10 PM UTC
I. the smell of sad
odorless colorless like ***** similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s),
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
still stink
don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ****** your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I,
who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face
there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all
this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present***
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
It is the end of times
Sound of fate in the chimes
Up rises the living dead
Filling thoughts full of dread
Creepily moving, ominous woe
Sea of the departed, hobbling slow
Gnarled teeth, eating flesh
Craving blood warm and fresh
Waves of corpses, a lifeless tsunami
Lookout world, here comes the zombies!
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
"You can join our group," he says,
"But only if you look everyone in the eyes."
I freeze.
Surely he is aware by now that the words
Autism Spectrum Disorder
In my chart were not placed there for fun?
Surely he is aware by now that finger twitching, body rocking,
gaze avoiding
Are not for my frivolous pleasure?
Surely he is aware by now the absurdity of what he asks?
I am autistic.
Burning irritation of the eyes and panic aside,
Staring creepily into another human's eyeballs
Would render group a waste of time, no possibility to listen.
He knows this.
It is his prejudice that keeps him rooted to the spot.
I can feel the weight of his expectations boring into my forehead.
Explaining what it is to ask this of me,
I remind him that drawing this line would be excluding me because
Of my autism.
I tell him he would be losing a valuable participant,
A deep thinker, a creator, an avid listener.
I tell him he would be discriminating,
That I am protected by law.
Oh, no.
He budges not,
For he does not dislike autistic humans
So long as they act like they are Neurotypical,
So long as I pretend to be
Someone I am not.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
The skies are blue and the clouds look fluffy.
The air is crisp and the water is chilling.
The mountains appear to touch the sky
and the leaves are rich shades of green, red, and orange.
I walked along out of service train tracks that cut through this mountain. Literally, through it.
The tunnels started on the West Shore of Donner Lake and followed the ridge of the mountain all the way to Truckee. I hiked a half a mile from the highway up to an opening in the tunnel. For a few hundred yards the tunnel was riddled with broken bottles and worthless graffiti. As I walked further in, the garbage began to disappear and the graffiti became thoughtful, artful. It became darker and darker until I could only see the circle illuminated by my pin flashlight. On one spot of the wall someone had written the entire first chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone. Someone had drawn a white line. Just a white line and I was so intrigued by it. People wrote stories of the lives. "Im kevin, my gf broke up w me now im gay" or "Im pat. i got dmt and then i got aids" and "im kaylene. thats it."
Someone sprayed a **** pipe on the wall of the tunnel and it was green. They paid very good attention to the crystals in the bowl and the smoke rising from it. A young girl with black hair had her lips on the pipe and she was breathing in. Written under it was "Remember, remember, the 5th of November."
Some one else had sprayed a cowboy. One half of him was black outlined with white and gray detail and the other half was white outlined with gray and black detail. Next to it was written "Childe Roland to the dark tower come."
Some one else had sprayed a devil. He was red with pure black eyes. It was signed "Self Portrait."
Halfway through there was a drain and creepily enough a faint light was shining from underneath the thick grates. Above it some one wrote "I stashed my **** here for three years."
Under that someone had wrote "Gateway to hell."
The rocks jutted out in straight lines.
Some were smooth and others rough.
The mountains cleansed me.
They wiped away some of the grime
this small city has polluted me with.
The crisp air exfolliated some of the
smoke from my lungs and the water
pulled the dirt from my skin
and the hike massaged my sore
feet and the graffiti swept through
one eyeball and took all the garbage
in my brain out through the other
eyeball. The mountains saved me.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
Beloved atrocity flatters me by any means
Dearly dishonored twist in the mind creepily transmits chills down the spine
Alter-ego of eerie grotesque underneath opposites where lay secrets kept
Wicked distortion of rise and fall like morning and night
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
Step 1: Take a breather. Don't start going insane and terrorizing the city with chainsaws. That is in a later step. Go have a cup of tea. Calm. If you're cold go get a blanket. Think warm thoughts. Imagine you are on fire. Okay, actually never mind, don't do that.
Step 2: Go back to your computer and hold down the off button until it completely shuts off.
Step 3: Scream obscenities at your laptop, kick it and drop it off the roof.
Step 4: Wonder why it isn't turning on.
Step 5: Call your second cousin twice removed's best friend's dogsitter's guitar teacher's Polish-speaking doctor who lives in Germany. Ask him for help. Apologize for thinking she was a man and explain the ****** hair in the pictures and her extremely deep voice were misleading. Say hello a couple times into the receiver before accepting she has hung up on you.
Step 6: Send your second cousin twice removed's best friend's dogsitter's guitar teacher's Polish-speaking doctor who lives in Germany a basket of muffins with a heartfelt apology note written in Korean, to prove you are multi-cultural.
Step 7: Hug your computer and stroke it creepily whispering: Awwww who’s a good laptop?
Step 8: Dump a bucket of water on your computer when it STILL doesn’t turn on. That’ll teach it.
Step 9: Cry about your hair not being shiny enough. Get distracted by a butterfly. Wonder why there is a butterfly in the middle of the arctic. Wonder why you are in the arctic and how you got there.
Step 10: Feed your stupid meany-pants laptop to a polar bear.
Step 11: RUN in terror from the hungry polar bear with indigestion that you have just ****** off.
Step 12: Get your chainsaw and go terrorize the nearest village.
Step 13: Send that village a basket of muffins and a heart-felt apology note written in gibberish so they are impressed by the fact that you are fluent in Gibberish.
(OPTIONAL STEP 14: Send that polar bear a basket of muffins. Just to be nice.)
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
How to deal with an addiction to hellopoetry:
Step one: Admit you have a problem
Step two: Start by limiting your time on it
Step three: Join a support group and share your feelings
Step four: Have the people in the support group talk to you about quitting hellopoetry.
Step 5: Slaughter everyone within a 10 mile radius with a chainsaw and go back on hellopoetry
Step 6: When the police knock on your door offer to help them sign up for hellopoetry.
Step 7: Creepily pet your chainsaw like a cat.
Step 8: Never mind, I'm too busy on hello poetry
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
Dear is the old deserted church so dear
Grave is the old churchyard abandoned grave
Hear the wind whistles through the churchyard hear
Fade as a withered flower, sunset, fade
Dead are the people sleeping in graves dead
Cold is the ground where they're buried in cold
Tread please do not upon their gravestones tread
Bold is the pretty sunset fading bold
Sad is the church where monks used to go sad
Sadly the tombs are overgrown sadly
Clad in such ghostly white robes they were clad
Creepily the knells rung out creepily
Dear is that familiar churchyard so dear
Hear the knells ring through the ghostly wind hear
~Marian~
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
Apostles and their apostates
Murderers unrepentant and
Mere manslaughters' mistakes
Epistles, that evokes the language of religious ritual
Selective honesty, Deeply and creepily
You want to be a doctor, therapist and priest
You are none of these things, as if these positions
Actually help people. They are stations presumably
Of some importance = stature, status, strength
Donning a standing
Polby Saves
Copyright © 2011
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:21 PM UTC
Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
Intoxicants when overused break families as waves break on the shore//
Their drug now becomes their love//
And you are equivalent to nothing in their perceived reality//
It either makes the users surrounding guests mature profound strong souls
As strong as the Pedi army stood against the British and Boer to protect their land//
Or it causes them to transfer to their own twisted but illusionistic universe where all they see is darkness and despondency//
And then one day//
The money begins to run out
and so do the people//
But rarely, oh so rarely some humans make the decision to stay and continue the journey//
Where the road may potentially split into two//
recovery or relapse//
Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
The money has begun to exhale into the earths atmosphere
just as a stoner exhales his poisonous vapour into our airspace//
Some stay behind to help the corrupt mortal//
No money equals no substances//
No ******* or cat or cannabis or crack or codeine//
No drugs//
Then//
Two beings begin to ignite each other's fires
they learn the things they didn't know for the what felt like a million and seventy years//
They begin to discover how the one mispronounces words
and how certain songs cause ones soul to sway as the bass drops
or how ones hair whirls as the wind rushes through it
or how he can see the depths of the her soul through the eyes
and when she stares at the moon
her beauty is illuminated by the magical glow//
And then one day//
The money starts returning//
Creepily and discretely
the evil money
the tragedious money//
Like an evil monster emerging from hell
Where its dark and *****
The money blows out the fire they have ignited
and slowly lures the user back//
The bond is now broken//
Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
I love all good poems,
and how they make me
feel whole but deboned,
de~parted,
sometimes cleansed
sometimes *****
sometimes ashamed,
occasionally fried,
occasionally enlived,
often all of these,
simultaneously
I love how mine please you,
breaking the knots of anonymity,
unleashing the little white package
strings of connection, and, when yours,
make me guffaw, or even a better, person-age,
when we weep deep in our recesses where the
just-beneath-the-surface emotes, are pricked and
brought to the surface, for the first time, or the last of time,
exposed, curated, healed, leaving but a tiny sore, that lingers
on the body's surfaces,where all things.are etched that
are needy for a reminding of the when,
and here, right there, is the where,
but your loving of likes somehow
dissatisfying, like a kiss, perfunctory, skullduggery
or dis genuine, a hit and a move on,which is why,
I treasure your comments, long or short,
insightful or delightful, critical or critique(e),
just a tender heart of appreciation, a snuggle
from the sea, throned out of Jonah's whale...
rounded bellicose belly
but they render me
alive,
when they split and spit me, to you,
you, to each, defined in pieces, gratitude
nuggets, each, treasured, each hugged, each letter,
a custom bespoke of connectivity and
who needs friends, when your words
embrace me so deep repeat and touch me
in places where my heart must follow on & on.
now many poems you commission with every exposition.
even the dimplest thanks is a vibrato of pleasuring sounds, that
you, you, you, took that particular moment of time to
express the heartfelt, destroys the invidious
that does quiet creepily slides inside us,
saying I am your comforter false,
but is not!
use your words, that,
they to the children teach; let us too
embrace this honorific so terrific, and touch each other with
comments, a sharing, and the sol shines on
'we two too, for all to seer and see
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 2:32 PM UTC
It's hilarious
Just think about our past...
the disadvantageous arguments
Arguments about things that we would soon know
It taught us about the future
We were disconnected, probably still are
Just because of closed hearts and minds...
And I'm not afraid to say, a little jealousy on my part...
We were young and thought we knew everything about each other.
We were disconnected, yet deep down in our unknowingly vast souls, we were the same.
I was thinking about those fights we used to have...
I reminisced about the day after your tenth birthday, when we were walking to school and you felt older, much like you do know, you felt proud to be older, I remembered that I was jealous and insisting that you were being mean. I remember your face when I said these things, and I felt guilty, you have one of those enforcing faces that told me that I was wrong.
I remember that one day we were fighting one morning at the bus stop, as we always did. After school, you fought Benny, remember him? We hadn't made amends yet, but I knew that you needed my support, and frankly, I needed yours... so I cried because I felt helpless but you stared trustingly straight into my soul, creepily I might add, and you told me to kick that **** in the face... but I trusted your judgment because you're my older brother and I love you! to this day I don't know if I actually kicked him, but I do remember that we ran home and we were as close as we'd ever been.
I remember those times, and I can't help but laugh, and smile, and cry.
I feel like lately our relationship has been kind of forced because we HAD to get along... but I feel like, if we talk more, like we used to... we could get our groove back. :)
I know this isn't a very rhythmic poem... but
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I love you Ethan!
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Today was the first day of class.
You should have seen all the people.
Everyone couldn’t have had class, some of them must
have been gawkers, the types that slow to watch
flat tire changings and car wrecks.
Some were carrying maps - freshmen.
Like student drivers they clogged the paths,
drawing a few looks.
They gaggle together like geese,
Jeeezus - shut UP and get ON with it, freshies! I thought.
Not ungenerously - I remember being lost - back in the day.
I have class, myself - in both the intrinsic sense - of style -
and in the “research for credit” ‘check in on the first day,’ kind.
Still, we’re parading, and I’ve always loved parades.
My one regret is that there are no mimes or elephants.
ok.. poetry..
Stress is somewhere in my propinquity.
See, it’s known to stalk this vicinity.
I’m not a freshman, so it hasn’t struck yet,
but when it does, and it will, you can bet,
that initially, it will shake my tranquility
and end our start-of-year festivities.
It will creepily creep, destroying my sleep,
until I prove my scholastic resiliency.
.
.
Songs for this:
Violently Happy by Björk
Schoolin' Life by Beyoncé
Aug 28, 2024
Aug 28, 2024 at 9:24 PM UTC
Or not until the changes of seasonal events reach out towards that very flower with a creepily chill in mind. Something that gives it a chance to open up (when it least expects it).
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 12:41 AM UTC
he was killed, i can promise you that
not that it meant a ******* thing
his hands were solid, calloused from everytime
he tried to set himself on fire
selfish immolation, no cause
no contribution, he wasnt
great
full, for his feet
which stood on souls
because his iron skin
curled into steel fists
radiated power, white hot steam
creepily peeking out of the furnace
when he finally moved, carelessly
flailing around,
a steer in an antique mall
furnished with heirlooms
that were stolen,
that we weeped over for years,
he didnt care
fully pour himself a glass
to sooth his aching, his self infliction
he feared we, he did fear
unwittingly filling his glass with
water, belly full, poisoned
with clarity, we poured out his whiskey,
he would suffer loss, he would suffer loss with us
poisoned with clarity
his glass looked transparent,
reflected like a mirror
poisoned with clarity
he was so empty
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
NOPE
BAHAHHAHAHA
junior guards granting a mission to mars
penelope singing sweetly with michalel jackson, creepily cranking out smooth criminal with howling wolf,
mothers bathing their babies in brookes, blessed and stressed and bothered by the milkman
brandy brought in by buccaneers seeps quickly and sours stale tempers
beautiful bodies blanking when naked and with no lighting
coffee stains adding character to create extra bold whiteness for optimists
lovers kissing kindly and collecting each others debts of brokenness
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
It’s a Human World
Since inherent mistakes occur
No single man is ever pure
Nothing is ever perfect
Only Omega is perfect
Eve and Adam sinned
But lessons will be learnt
Eternal Light beams through the darkness
Wisdom evolves
The Human world becomes a better place
Disappointment ceases
Time creepily heaps the wounded
Understanding, unity, acceptance prevails
Love amazingly saves all
We are one human being
We are one human being family
In this one big human world we share
It’s a human world
By: Wileh Kama
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
I don't speak for or against
Except that I do speak
For humanity, against violence
If you...pick up that blob of attack
Smother it with vengeance
and throw; then run...and run as fast as you can
Because it will come back
As a bigger, nastier blob
Run, but a hiding place you won't find
How can you run from hatred?
When it has sunk into your very bones
Do you see it in the mirror each day?
It is eating up your soul
How can you live in peace?
With so much ugliness creepily creeping up
How low can you stoop? Another hit will tell
Why can't you control the bad
If it is really so, through good?
What's the difference then, between you and them?
You **** innocents in the process too
Then you too, must be a terrorist, dear government, isn't that true?
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC
When the bottle collapses the smoke stares back
It sees me better
Than a glass eye
Smirking creepily
I’m patiently waiting for it to change
Like the moments taken away
Helpnessness is an emptiness
That blocks out empowerment
It takes courage to reconfigure the empowered
To put your power in its place
And to recognize
That the mask must come down
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 4:03 PM UTC
The cold handles of the kitchen cabinets dig into her thinly covered back. Sobs emerge from her unnaturally cold, tired body.
Yawns interrupt her cries for understanding, as she is unable to deal with the extreme exhaustion.
Why her?
Why has she allowed the drive for perfection to infiltrate her vessel? Why did she give into society’s insecure perception of beauty, instead of building her own self confidence and decisions about appearance herself?
Her inability to cope with a growing, changing body.
That’s what drove her to insanity and perfection in food intake.
Now she sits on the kitchen floor, pondering her downfall.
The veins clearly visible in her hands.
Her hands creepily thin.
She can feel it all over her body, the thin layer of protection she has. She’s horribly ashamed of the way she looks.
She knows she’s too thin, but struggles to conquer her disordered thinking patterns and perfectionistic thoughts she has carried for so long about food.
All the hate she harboured for her “fat” body, has transferred to her thin body.
She’s ashamed beyond belief of the way she looks.
She doesn’t want to be seen in a bathing suit.
She still refuses to look into a mirror.
She let something as simple and insignificant as food take over her life and shrivel her very being.
She doesn’t even know who she is.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
First day of school,
The day kids come back from a long summer break.
I didn't know anyone,
No one knew me.
New kid to the school,
Shy boy, that's what I am.
Sitting in class,
Avoiding eye contact and speech with everyone.
She then came with her friends,
Beautiful red hair,
Big brown eyes,
Snow white skin.
I wanted her to be mine.
She askes for my name,
I, lost in thought, didn't respond.
She askes again,
Surprised she was talking to me,
I respond quietly my name.
"Tenaj. Tenaj Taylor."
She compliments me on my clothing and my name.
Her friends talking to me,
Not responding to them,
Lost in the gaze of her eyes.
Words, compliments, stuck on the tip of my tounge.
Couldn't get them out.
Staring at her creepily.
She had me the first day.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
I saw a man on the bus today,
he looked like your sort.
Dark skin with darker hair and
very fine prominent cheekbones,
with just enough beard to look
scruff but smart.
Ah, to be scruff but smart,
dapper, suave and rough.
As he brushes a tuft of his hair
behind his left ear
I smile to myself creepily.
I'm not afraid to admit
I was thinking about how
I could write all this.
Then about why I thought
that he'd tickle your fancy.
I guess I didn't really.
I suppose I took to my own liking
and assumed he'd
look good next to you somehow.
I can't say I know why.
Though I believe
a straight man is entitled
to an opinion in this case.
The same way a woman might
talk about how their waitress
had stunning eyes or
wonderful hair that shines
without being even
the slightest bit greasy.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
accursed creepily haunting
phantasmagoria wraiths
vandalize residents psyches
within their sleep induced state
sublimation shunts
slumbering souls
unknowingly held hostage
successfully sacrificing
semi-smothered silent species
snoring simians steadfastly succumb
subsequent sibilant sounds
woo woebegone wicked transmogrification
dilapidated divested bodies deposited
wizard waves wand
watching whirling wretched lovely bones
whipsawing (in toto) within abyss
whooshing whistling wheezing
whets warlocks appetite wakening
brutish nasty nightmare
sinister hulking spirits
steal assorted corporeal essence
monstrous mashing somnambulant
mephistophelian shadowy satanic satyrs
supremely swallow senior citizen bankers
deep within catacombs
of Highland Manor,
deadened defeated Delphic Oracle
relegates human husks,
viz spent embodiments
to the under world lay siege
sinisterly seeding, via sinister spirits
one pure evil particularly wicked
witch thy capering
sickening ghastly plot against
unsuspecting spouse snatched
parch trey gnarled warty claws.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC