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I don’t know who
I’m supposed to be
Who I am
or who they want me to be
The answer’s not
so easy to see
Not well known
There's an uncertainty
Knee-**** answer
is to be
wholly free
I'll explain
in detail
Paint a picture clearly
A tutor's not needed
No need to study
No higher degree
With candor
I’ll speak

Let me tell you about
so-called “un-pleasantries"
The list is quite lengthy
A few;
maybe three
Gonna rattle them off
What's been mentioned to me
Not the worst of mistakes
but a category
May irritate some
To others
‘let be’
Saying that’s who I am
and as such
accept me
A minority group
not the majority
and by far
and by few
They are lost in between

Some say I’m intense
and can be
quite chatty
a talker
‘Verbose’ tendency
Don’t deny what is true
But not always guilty
The day in
and day out
doesn't constantly stream
Not sustained
They can change
Just like who
we will be
Not robots
Not copies
or placed on CD
Live a life
of routine
but not one
on repeat
Even still
I must say
there are worse things to be

Empathetic and kind
I give generously
All I have
My last dime
Will donate
each penny
I'm not searching for credit
Approval don't seek
Like to make others happy
Inside, I’m complete
When I focus on others
No discrepancy
I’m not dwelling
or thinking
of my tendencies
Please don't offer
your pity
or give charity
Try to bend; compromise
don’t perceive me
as weak
I'm the chivalrous type
Will get down
on one knee
Not walled off or closed up
Bare my soul
Give freely
But there's more
locked inside
So when time comes to speak
It’s a flood
a deluge
There's an intensity
Give too much
Give too quick
Try to stop
inside keep
I can bottle
it up
but sometimes
it still peaks
Little may trickle out
it will seep
If an access is given
in a heap
When I love
I dive in
You may think I’m a freak
The emotional type
Tug heart strings
and I’ll weep
Not a blubbering fool
my emotions
run deep
A calm hand
I can sooth
In a crisis
I’m strong
This unfortunately
is something
that I know
But don’t wish on
to speak
Life presents me
two roads
With both closed off
to me
Feel locked up
in a cage
while I look
to be free

A locked door
Here I stand
desperately for the key
Wanting answers
A new found decree
Need a mantra
A mission
affecting systems
The true stem
of what’s me
My core
Sprouting roots from a tree
Happiness from the Sun
or beneath canopy
Not about
getting answers
Away goes the fee
Hamlet asked long ago
If 'to be or not be'
I know that it's different
Just work with me please
My point
is the question
In life, what to seek?
A life
that’s authentic
or society
We conform
and adapt
What they want us to be
If like me
you're unsure
It can drive you crazy
Take a chance?
And be pure
Live a life that's taint free
In return
you'll endure
Side remarks
and critiques
Is the juice worth the squeeze?
Be like them
or unique
Written: September 22, 2108

All rights reserved.
[Anapestic Hexameter Format]
False Poets Aug 2014
the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste

born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes

blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction

the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of

but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't

For Crumble
Terry O'Leary Jun 2015
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,

before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,

and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,

and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),

and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).

And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,

the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."


Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.

But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:

“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”


        ”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial.  On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.

Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising

A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.

Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days

So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:

We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.

Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.

Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques

Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock

Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,  
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Written August 2013
Nat Lipstadt May 21
I am here, waiting patiently for her,
though long time no see
like in ever, like in never,
my absentia, dementia,
both critiques of self-censure,
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you:

as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, mocking, laughing upon me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot never look upon her as well,
my sun, my sun,
yet she, too is everywhere-inside of me,
woman-sun, both warmly illuminating my muddled mind
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2018
based on the essay below received from Liz Balise**

all poems and their accompaniment sauces begin with onions
start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings

the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.

so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.

the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!

what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.

and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.

everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you in it, in you,
you in it are both poet and poem
and a simmering new and different

A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method
As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other  creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
She moves with
The Gracious meeting in denial
He's the baron of beef delicious side
Reproduction picture full slide
The most
   Casual face

Met the eternal masterly
    Artist face
Saying Oh! Grace
The other side of midnight
     Mask Face
She could overjoy anyone's
Heart in the right place
    Deceiving Face

The miracle of love principles
Such skepticism could it be overjoyed realism

But a hell of a time with heavenly bliss
What a shock when he gave me my kiss
His Crooked face to longevity nose
Hiding place A-Rose

Beachy trance-set face

Highlands of Scotland,
anybody would want her
     *Joyful face

He's the baronial
Secluded caves but risky dives
The turn only If?? I
could turn back the time
The events strictly

Her apple cheeks bathing suit
He is picking her fruit
So soothing the fiddle
Tinman whistles the ladies harps

Their medieval moment's help!!!
The swords  bust to his manly chest
Sleeping Inn New castle west
Their best bedrest

The cupboards open overjoyed
invitation decorative cans
Of greens, pinks, purple passion

And flourless chocolate cakes
Powdered lips love his reaction

She was seductively awe-inspiring
The top hills of Ireland grass
vividly raised her legs
The bowl next to her
The Rose blush wines
Bare it Fruit and figs

The baronial tug of war wigs

Melodious birds the
Grand One
The thousand piano words
Overjoyed but
under the {Baronial} weather

So lordly new threads tailored
carpenter pants
Men of the herds
She's the
Caron French boutique

There ****** desires
The creature within
Wildly mating like critiques

Her perfumes so extinct
Overjoyed her heart
So cultured violin strings
Dollhouse Castle to restore
With her unique touches,
he wanted more

The steps tiring like a killed deer
every muscle he could hear

Over elaborating how people are dating
With a  stamped from the very
heart  approval
But hard times such laboring
Sitting in her
overjoyed chair
His face all Scrooged
no gifts of flowers
What are the odds of this pair

Over and over again her rainbow
her sensitivity we need longevity
The  endless walls are caving in
We are not so overjoyed by
this monster garden
She had her first breakdown
Going up the
Jack and Jill Ireland hill
In the longtime what long run
Way too short
It didn't come from above

The vintage oldtimer
radios sitting
together with
family listening
so long ago
So commercialized
The crazy shows
Where do you really want to go,
you just want to shut everything off

He called her the powder puff
Waiting for the nocturnal star
Those scrubs and hot rubs shower
Over my knee-high boots so in
love cahoots

Oh! It's her
The smart student
Owl Hoot whats to boot
Eating her shepherd's pie
so lordly full lips word-me
Ireland Holy Land
of love and beauty

Overly scrupulousness
The time of blessings

But the baronial loved to be
overly entertained
And she would sit there  
Blue-blooded royal dishes
Got flushed away no wishes

Like the hardest love
of multiplication
The ****** overstimulation
Over embellished
But you're still positive
But why did she
want to vanish

Destroyed her
Apple jubilee computer

Spiritual Zen
Or new lover Amen
Ever touched by Ireland maidens
Like the crimson and clover
I do believe in the
Four leaf clover Face

Like the only thing she picked
were the weeds
More beauty of life and deeds
Or tons of sorrow wondering
how she
would feel tomorrow?
We will never know
Overjoyed by so many things have the beauty Ireland is amazingly beautified or everything feels unnecessary gloomy or horrified you rather pick of ripe blueberry or cherry or blackberry living like your in the castle being summoned on by the Scrooged type Baron
annh Aug 2
Miss Dolly Dumpkiss
writes critiques backhandedly
while wearing nowt
more than her favourite French
perfume - L'Assassin
and a disingenuous
half smile. D'accord?

'Maybe the whole Internet will simply become like Facebook: falsely jolly, fake-friendly, self-promoting, slickly disingenuous.'
- Zadie Smith
Classy J Jun 28
Most can’t understand me, to be honest I don’t understand me either,
All because I won’t conform to all ya sheepish lizards.
Snaking each other in order to eat all the gizzards.
In a land where everyone is ******* bitter,
Spitting around their toxic chatter.
Last time I checked my business isn’t apart of your matters.
Last time I checked you were not my creator.
Thinking you know better,
Stop it I’m only filled with so much laughter.
To me your advice is like anime filler.
Womp, a womp womp like some Charlie Brown chatter.
And I don’t **** with snakes, I only **** with ladders.
They say Life is a board game that results from domino factors.
But if everything is by chance, then I’m ok with being seen as the mad hatter.
A conspiracy thinker, that goes outside the box to find more and better answers.
Instead of sitting on ones *** like the rest of yawl wankers.
That be crying about the **** I spit, but sorry I don’t make music for ******* toddlers.
If you want family friendly entertainment go watch Mr.Rodgers.
And if you keep acting like a little *****, I’ll have to get you a shock collar.
For most of yawl are second rate bug zappers.
And I am the beyonder.
Your nick miller.
I’m the Undertaker.
Your Rob Schneider.
I’m Christopher Plummer.  
Look We ain’t in the same league,
You best believe, don’t **** with my expertise.
Yawl ain’t real, yawl fake as a weave.
I’m the Havarti, your the blue cheese.
You can’t measure up to me.
So back off, with all your pathetic critiques.
And just respect the technique.
Verse 2:
Respect the technique or prepare to take heat.
Smoked out and hung from one’s feet.
Ain’t no way to opt-out as I won’t fall for your deceit.
Do you think I’m fresh from the teet?
For I’m not one you can simply defeat.
Or be blind sided by all your *******.
Why can’t you see?
Why do you lean on Ignorance?
******* around, drugged out, like Charlie sheen.
Why do you fake innocence?
We are all ugly on the inside?
But a lot of yawl ugly on the outside too!
I guess some people can’t escape or hide?
Escape or hide from what is actually true.
From what is true.
Hating on my technique.
Hating that unlike you I’m actually unique.
Hating that I have the courage to not be a sheep.
Consuming the feed the media forces into you and me.
Getting us addicted to toxicity, in order to not say a little peep.
Can’t you see we are not actually free?
Can’t you see you’re overdosing on deceit?
If only you weren’t to blind to see.
You might just learn to respect the technique.
Look We ain’t in the same league,
You best believe, don’t **** with my expertise.
Yawl ain’t real, yawl fake as a weave.
I’m the Havarti, your the blue cheese.
You can’t measure up to me.
So back off, with all your pathetic critiques.
And just respect the technique.
melissa rose Dec 2018
I stand before you
stripped of everything
you have ever said,
of me
Your ugly words
harsh judgements
devastating critiques
misdirected Anger
lingering sadness
those bitter tears
of undeniable
A ***** drift
of soot
bury my feet
So I weep
I weep for you
for me
for Us
and for the world of endless
and watch in awe
as the raging river
washes away
Our past
our future
by dawn,
A flood - your life
Faded away
My life
Sharply focused
I stand before you
Seeing myself
For the very first
stood still
basking naked
in the vastness
of my Truth
through the whispering
prolonged echoes                  D
of Freedom                         E
christened me               R
and                           A          
I                           O
James Shayne Jul 2018
(Trigger Warning/ Mentions of Suicide)

I am allergic to flowers but you are a flower that I have learned to love
I love you so much it scares me
I love you so much that I was blind for a while
I couldn't see the signs
I saw you hopscotch over cracks in the sidewalks... thought you were dancing
Saw you scratch at your skin... couldn't see you digging for intentional pain
Saw the way you stared at knives... didn't think you would use them to cut into your own body
I love you so much I went deaf for a while
Didn't hear the depression when you said you couldn't sleep and when you did it was for more than ten hours and when you woke up you were still tired but you couldn't go back to sleep or get out of bed
I'm sorry I didn't notice that you weren't happy often or ever
I'm sorry I couldn't hear you
I said I love you
But I can't help but blame myself
I should have said something sooner
Told a teacher
A friend
Before I could do anything you were taken away
I told myself it was for your own good,
it was temporary, that you'd be back soon

I love you so much
I forgot to eat for three days
Or I cried for three days or blamed myself for three days
Basically, I disassociated for three days

To be honest I love you but you scare me

I have a recurring dream that I get a call from your mother and she's in tears
and before she says anything I know why she called me

To say you jumped off a bridge
Or swallowed an entire bottle of pills
Or just to say that you died
Maybe she would spare me the details

(Please give critiques)
Classy J Aug 6
Unsure on what to do,
Unsure on what to say,
Before you go,
On your way.
A way apart from me.
Wish I could count the times,
We almost said goodbye.
I thought I changed.
I thought wrong.
That is true.
My life’s a zoo.
Caged in like a monster.
But I don’t mind.
Because for All my life that’s how I’ve been defined.
And I can’t lie,
When I say I don’t deserve sum of it.
But  six warning shots to the head and back man.
That’s more than just corporal punishment.
It’s astonishing that I’m still around.
Like a holy cow please don’t eat me.
Ripping me apart with all them critiques.
Yet we stuck through it.
Yet you keep me going.
Instead of throwing in the towel.
You gave me the courage to keep on my dark night cowl.
But now,
When things are going great.
And I admit I made one big mistake.
That’s on me.
But baby don’t you see.
I’m not complete without you there for me.
And right now I’m alone,
Next to the phone.
Hoping it rings,
And this fall can turn back into spring.
Thinking of the things I would say to get you back,
But I’m,
Unsure on what to do,
Unsure on what to say,
Before you go,
On your way.
A way apart from me.
Wish I could count the times,
We almost said goodbye.
You thought I had changed.
You thought wrong.
That is true.
I was unfaithful to you.
Free from my cage.
Where you can fly far far away.
But you don’t mind.
Because all your life you struggled with how you were defined.
And you would try to hide,
Yeah you would try to lie,
That you were doing fine.
But we both knew there was something between the lines.
And I guess I pushed to hard,
And you kept your heart on guard,
And I guess you and I got tired of it,
And we were over each other even before we actually split.
I guess love can quit.
I guess words can stick.
Stick right through our hearts.
I think I would prefer getting ******.
For that would only break my bones.
Because right now there is a hole in our souls.
That I tried to fill by cheating.
I wasn’t thinking.
You were at your mothers,
And I was out drinking.
I know that’s no excuse.
But I hoped we find a truce.
Instead of all this heartache.
And I wish I had the rights words to say,
But I’m,
Unsure on what to do,
Unsure on what to say,
Before you go,
On your way.
A way apart from me.
Wish I could count the times,
We almost said goodbye.
But today it looks like goodbye is the only option.
Dev Aug 1
I once drew a dinosaur scene on my grandparent's wall.

T-rex and long necks over 30 feet tall.

My raptor looked lonely so I thought I'd draw double.

"Wow. You're going to be in so much trouble."

My sister's comment came with such great surprise.

She didn't stop to see the detail in the Triceratop's eyes.

No compliments or critiques, she just walked on by.

She returned with a smirk and someone by her side.

My feeling of joy was replaced with pure dread.

Like the crayon I had dropped, my face, pure red.

Grandpa picked up the blood colored cylinder

He than showed me how add our family signature.

My grandpa would jest, as I nearly **** my long-johns: 

"You’re never too old to draw with crayons."
Challenge: Write a poem including the line, “You’re never too old to draw with crayons."

For the sake of rhyme, I hope you pronounce it "cra-yons".
James Shayne Oct 2018
1.   Hi, my name is James                              ( I know that sounds like a start to a really bad dating profile but bear with me )

2. I have lived in New York my whole life, I am afraid that if I don't leave the state for college then I will never leave

3. I'm scared that I might be lactose intolerant

4. I really love the cold

5. If music did not exist then I probably wouldn't be alive today
6. Whenever I am alone I will belt out any song that I know at the top of my lungs

7. I really like to play solitaire... Online

8. I am a Russian/German Jew and when I tell people that their reactions range from "cool" to "How the **** did that happen?"

9. I have a lot of opinions

10. The movie with the best soundtrack is Guardians of The Galaxy 2

11. The TV show with the best soundtrack is Grey's Anatomy

12. When I have a panic attack I will count all the green things possible or recite song lyrics or name as many Gilmore Girls characters as I can

13. My biggest fear is never dying   I used to wish I was dead, came very close to fulfilling my desire but I'm glad I didn't because in the last few months I have met the best people ever

14. I quote John Mulaney a lot

15. I plan birthday gifts months in advance because I expect to still have someone to give that gift to I have throw out so many gifts

16. I get addicted to things really quickly and really easy, things like music, tv show plots, the fact the Mattress Firm is definitely a front for money laundering drug traffickers, also books, toxic people, and drugs      
That's the last one tends to shock people

17. I own 34 postcards, I had about 200 pins now only 17, I have a lot of funko pops maybe 70 all stacked on a shelf like a really impressive game for Jenga, I own too many keychains and way too many stuffed animals

18. My best friend was produced by GC2B

19. I used to participate in GLSEN Day of Silence all day every day
20. The words scarred and scared mean the same thing to me they overlap in my head and on my body
My scares tell my stories                      My tool of choice is not a blade or flame but my nails.
I have my anxieties stuck under my fingertips

21. In my last therapy session, I mentioned the fact that my father lives like a ninja turtle   This made my therapist laugh like really hard

22. Sometimes I think maybe I could be a stand-up comedian but no one would like me because all my jokes would be self-deprecating and I would be on the verge of tears the whole time

23. When I was younger I was told nobody likes sad people so don't be sad

24. When I was younger I was told a lot of *******

25. I'm still learning new things about me,  I'm still learning how to love me, I am nowhere close to complete, I am still growing from experiences and that is okay                          
Thank you for learning something about me

(Please give critiques)
Jamie Lee Oct 2018
Is hell
Because I do not enjoy
And well
I enjoy all of you-
With your smooth moves
Perky and peachy attitudes
Teach me
To be as sweet
As you-

Can be cruel
Not like it is on tv,
Or beside me
Everyone shining,
While my smile feels
Like hiding
Under this wax mask
A painted canvus
Of pale and black
Don't look at me
I'm a heartattack
A bad act-
Broken glass
Of a painted doll

I am a leo lioness
Your hieness
Sparkles on my eyelids
But you see
I have enough pride
To hide it-
Its priceless,
Really hillarious
Sometimes I feel
Like a bad *****
But I'm none of this
I am the pray,
The gazelle in the grass
But I am also the lion
Waiting to attack myself

Because you see,

Is hell,
I am the lion
I am the gazelle
I am heaven and hell
In a vessle of myself
See what you will,
Your critiques are nothing
My only enemy is me
My only savior is me
I am a lion
But I am also
A sheep

Don't look at me

Sometimes I cry in the mirror
Blink my mascara tears,
Blurry mess-
Can't fit in my old dresses
Tearing apart at the seams,
Crawled out of my skin
And made some bad habits
Declining wealth
Declining health
Laughing as the scales tip-
After all I am a person,
Not permanent
Why should I care

But I do

I do when I look at you
You with your talented hands
With your spider lashes
And good moods
Teach me to feel
As good
As you
My lipstick smears and screams
As the paintings on my face mock me
So will my body,
My body thats bruised
And missused
Perfume to cover the *****
They'll see my cherry lips move
But they won't hear me talking
Its perfect,
The mask of confidence
My incompetence
Is a perfect fit

No, really

Its lovely
When I wear it,
People love me!
Because people think
I love myself
Is hell,
Beacuse I do not
Love myself
I love everybody else,
Even the ones who
Say I am full of it,
Selfish leo,
Selfish lion
Exaggerated ego-
Winking eyelids
Wings to my forehead-
I flaunt
What I don't want,
Because you want me to
You want me
To love me
Like you do

All of you

I remember the words
From my mother,
Is not a pretty color-
Its crimson red,
Like blood,
I've had to sew it up
Don't look here
Not at my guts,
Look at my eyelids
Are these not enough?!?!
These cherry lips
Tell you to sush
Less of a lioness,
More of a cub
I know
I am my own predator
My own pray

I am

All of the above
He Pa'amon Jan 28
no longer will i punish myself
and instead i will forgive

forgive not only the mistakes
-to err is to be human you know-
but the critiques and the shame that i have inflicted on myself

i once believed these negativities would mold me into something better
but there is no better that would absolve me

and so

i give myself permission to be
without constraints, or qualifications
without remorse, or judgment

everything i need i can give to myself
and i should give to myself

unconditional love
for all that is
and was
and will be

i am both my mother and my daughter
and i shall care for myself as such
and i shall love myself as such

and i shall be loved and i shall love
I lived here far too long
in this cavern dripping its darkness
with accusations and critiques
that have wetted my back with thick moisture
sticky with comparisons.
The crevasses and stones were placed with my collusion
in crazy cooperation with shadow.

Sadly the path of my past is strewn with this profusion
but gladly timely shafts of light spoiled the deception
and I climbed to a luminous plain
encountered rocky mounts
with veins of silver and gold
that bantered with the pain.

Now my long conversation with light
has staunched the blight
and rarely does the tempest threaten
to drown my spirit in its flood.

For now my shortfalls are taken in stride
measured against the serenity of truth
that surrounds me.

Now my hands are joined to fellow travelers,
to the faithful who laugh with me
at the reaper of darkness
weak in the ditch
whimpering over the paucity of his power
in the face of brothers and sisters
redeemed by the force
of honesty, trust, and Love.

Written 11-9-19
Written 11-9-19 after some reflection on a tiny bit of fear I had about reading at a funeral a poem I wrote for a dear friend and his family.  There will be some colleagues in the audience from the college where I used to teach.  I used to compare myself to them and often found myself wanting.  My meditation and reflection on this is contained in this poem.  Thanks for reading
Wyatt Sep 2018
Weaponizing my mind
to fight off another night,
but another part of me strategized
to make it to the other side early.
I'm sorry for saying.
Something about a mysterious death
at an early age has always fascinated me,
to be honest.
Like a Curt Kobain or a Robin Williams,
what did their lives consist of compared to mine?
As a youth never understood,
decorated with stereotypes
my peers draped over me
I grew bitter and confused as a pre-teen,
concerned with how I
was going to handle all of these
responsibilities suddenly thrown upon me.
Little things made me wanna die, so how do I
deal with these serious subjects which currently
share space in my mind?
I was childish, I had trouble forming the sentences
that could have saved my life from going down this
path I'm currently cursed to walk.
I took nothing seriously,
I just wanted to rot my brain away
staring at the TV which played every cartoon
that added fire to the fantasy burning within me.
I wanted to be a prodigy, I wanted to be special,
I wanted to help others realize their own greatness as-well
which backfired once I accepted my mediocrity.
The proof was in the pudding, so they say.
I jumped to levitate and my face met the ground,
I wanted to sing and produced an ugly sound.
I wanted to get a head-start in the race
and always found myself waking up late,
running to the classroom
to avoid embarrassment
from these peers already seated
with their assignments.
You're out here deciding life-goals and majors
and I'm just sitting here scribbling in a notebook
trying to find words that rhyme with others.
Writing poetry before I even knew the word,
I just called them cool sentences.
That was bliss, that was disappearing for me
in a world that seemingly didn't match my DNA.
If you made it this far in the poem, I wonder why
because these are just the
ponderings of my troubled mind.

I'm late to the game, late to the pen.
I'm late to the door, late to the end.
I'm late to the party, late to the trends
so an early death would be my first time
making it to whatever comes next on time.

Wanted spotlight, but not for my own selfishness.
Wanted to fight for you, not what I'll indulge in
but that hope was already small as it was.
Now the few people that existed in my life
started straying, dissipating into the blur of life.
They got cars, got jobs, they
got depressed and I got sorta shy.
I shut myself into my mind,
creating different ways of this occurring.
I made myself a sports-star, a musician,
a politician that actually brought us peace,
or a magician that made happiness grow on trees.
God, I tried to let you soak into me
when I cried myself to sleep.
but these days I meet with doubts
and slowly I feel further away from you.
I know you've healed sicknesses
that would've killed me early,
I know you gave me opportunity.
I wasted that potential you gave me,
I just wanted to do something
that meant something.

Ever since I first learned
about depression I was never the same,
I remember my brother telling me
how much he wanted to **** himself
and I think some of that self-hate reflected onto myself.
I started hating those talks, those dreadful walks
to an empty room to talk him off the ledge.
I started avoiding him to give myself false-peace,
I started finding distractions to divert me
from suicide that was mentioned to me
by bullies that said I'd be better off dead
and now I think I understand what they meant.
After twenty one years
I haven't passed ten years old.
I still think like a kid, I ain't no adult.
I still get panic attacks when I
think about driving in traffic,
that ticket to leave is locked
behind fears I can't assess.
All I wanted was someone to notice me,
I didn't want to become
another face in a monotone society
that teaches us to blend in,
I always stood out.
Even now, my shifty eyes
get weird glares from their eyes.
"Avoid confrontation to avoid lies",
so I keep to myself until my demise.
That time feels sooner than most think,
my fear will be the death of me.
I don't fear death, I fear living life
under microscopes that won't get my life.
You, you and you.
You couldn't handle my truth.
Just a glance on this page
and you'll go "****".
Once my parents die ashamed of me,
once my siblings fully abandon me,
once I have to move myself to the streets,
what will this world think of me
when I have nothing left to hide behind?
Now I'm weaponizing myself.

Weaponizing my mind
to fight off another night,
but another part of me strategized
to make it to the other side early.
I'm sorry for saying.

All my life I wonder what comes next,
but now I've lived long enough to know
that nothing changes for the better.
Hospital bills **** me,
depression pills depress me.
Prescription pain-killers only
shows weakness in me.
I hate these stereotypes we are forced to live under.
The defenseless girl and the muscle men,
even though I've met many strong girls
living lonely lives raising kids
they never asked to raise alone.
I've looked at myself in the mirror
and without fail I notice all the fat
that hangs off my body, it's disgusting.
To lose it would be to find motivation
which is hard to grasp when I don't see
myself in a happier picture regardless.
Ugly face, eyes confined to glasses,
personality disorders that prevent me
from going out and actively
embracing every facet of society.
Bipolar, my heart gets colder.
I think bad things on good days
and on bad days I die inside.
So what the hell is a real man?
What is confidence?
What is bagging women
like a box of chocolates?
What is smoking your life away
to look cool in front of people
who will look the other way
when you abandon these constructs
that got you that far today?
I guess I'm not a man, I guess I'm a kid
or maybe an alien that has no place
in a world that critiques long before they listen?
I'm weaponizing myself in mind, not in person.
Because a guy with a gun can still die in a knife-fight.
I can't trust what you say,
I'll sleep with both eyes open.
Loveable nice-guy who is quiet,
that's all I've ever been.
I'm such a coward, it's evident.
I've let my family, my friends,
these strangers all in my life step over me.
And now I'm alone, bruised ego and all
preparing for the night.
I'm ready to die, so
will this be the last thing I write?
It's long. It's detailed. It's honest. This is me.
For doubters of me, which includes myself.
I'm weaponized, but now time is running short.
Life has been a hell I'll never forget,
so forgive me for wishing myself death.
Her stained thoughts manifest
as reckless voice that
critiques and confines.

Her words jars authenticity
and snubs their narrative,
cooked from their perspective,
and experience.

Flames of disapproval,
burn brighter with every beat
as incompetency bites
and acceptance withers.

She captures snapshots,
and confines them into
stereotyped framed
of idiosyncratic value.

But steadily,
as she delayers,
scrubs the scrutiny of judgements
of her thoughts, and emotions —
she steps off the battleground
of others skin
and becomes the change of creating
a embracing society.
Salem Jul 9
in loops
my mind
again again again
my mother in the mirror
paralyzed hatred
phantom critiques
i dance in circles
i think

— The End —