"customised" poems
**Attitude, one that comes Inbuilt
Second ,Customised
Blend to Blend !!**
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
Run your slender fingers through my desert storm, whilst tumbleweed blows past mechanical vineyards.
Although it feels like heaven, it would be fitting to acknowledge the indulgent nature of our deprivations.
How diabolical are our interpersonal dynamics amidst customised motorcycles with forked tongues
where the societal corpus callosum facilitates communication between hemispheres of cultural polarity.
Let us expose the violence that is submerged within suave guises of sophistication.
I am already seated in the dunes of contemplation where the sky at night reveals mysteries of silent amazement.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Dear diary, can I tell you a story?
I tried last summer
Dear diary, can I add to that story?
I lied last summer.
Dear diary, can I finish that story?
I died last summer.
But to explain that further, let me tell you the whole story;
I lied last summer.
Your mouth spews out insults like a second nature,
polluting the room with your sickly sweetness and over made up frowns,
before we know it over-sized hoodies and baggy t-shirts,
line our wardrobes in a desperate attempt to make us invisible.
Teachers turn a blind eye and old friends start to forget us.
Before we know it, we’re keeping our hands down in class,
first of all because we don’t want to share our opinions,
but more importantly because no-one would even care.
In this 21st century hell,
we can only try and tread carefully around you,
because when we don’t, it’s worse.
When we don’t, we have to bear the sting as reality slaps us in the face leaving us feeling flustered and insane.
And before we know it,
we’ve forgotten what the heat of the sun feels like upon our bare skin,
because we hate the paranoia we feel,
just walking alone where you’re around.
And the rest of them, they just sit there and stare,
as though willing it away half-heartedly in their minds
could cause even a miniscule amount of difference,
while we,
the freaks,
the losers,
the broken records among a pristine collection,
we were all rotting away as you, like a rat, ate hungrily at our collective corpse.
Before we know it,
those bitter, barely customised whispers you send through the hallways
turn into a deafening ringing,
in our heads constantly
And so as the cool summer air blew through my hair,
red hot tear streaks fell like train tracks upon my pale, blotchy cheeks.
Time slipped through my fingers as weeping angels serenaded me,
eyes closed,
heart overdosed… on emotion,
a notion,
distortion
of devotion…
I fell in slow motion.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
Celtic and warrior spirits reside amidst the undergrowth of our shallow and contemporary delusions.
So, let us take stalk of farmers’ fields where crop rotation is subject to the ritualistic attempts of the prophets of Baal.
There is something which is delectably acceptable about Jack the Ripper, where powdered noses spread their orifice of congestion across alleyways of Victorian London.
I love the smell of cobbled streets as they convey an aroma of coconut and damp resilience.
Let us not lament the death of sophistication where contemporary entrails spread their distance across the tank of customised motorcycles.
What are you lookin’ at?
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Sweet bitterness
Wicked heart
Soul struck
Customised pain
Drunk love
Stay alive
Tear drop
Frost bite
Haunted house
Setting fire
Yesterday's gone
Love me
Hate him
Let go
Lose me
Repeat as necessary...
Caution; *broken heart club members only.
Preferably masochists.*
© Sia Jane
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
I'm in love
With my "depression"
It makes me feel special
Makes me feel better
I'm so hungry
For your pity
Help me
Push me away
Into a hole and I'll sit there
Unable to climb out
A ladder next to me
A grin on my face
I wear a rope around my neck
Customised for optimal comfort
Decorated to my taste
I long to be entombed
I'm a human waste of space
And here's a word of advice:
To every one of you
Always be
The one with bigger scars
Always wear the tightest rope
Always be the one
In the chokiest car
The only one
To feel the gloom
Always be
The one to breath the fumes
The saddest person
In any room
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
Nobody feels the same way,
Although we all feel sore,
With our unique cuts and bruises,
Scratching the cold surface, begging for an end.
Everyone's head is throbbing,
Overwhelmed by too little or too much,
Sailing a broken boat in their own troubled waters,
Searching for a pill customised to their inflictions.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
A river
a beautiful mirror
once a free spirited clear sparkle
now a stagnant green and blue
gullible and naive she was
smiling warmth back at every leer
and sheltering all
the odds and evens
abused and left
look at her lust for life
for she still hopes for some
footsteps of love and care
to kiss life in her
and resurrect her dreams
the torn body still with
a soul alive
oh how hard she tried
to keep her wounds hidden
from the smirking eyes
but sometimes even the pride refuses
to hide the pain any more
And the breeze
she never makes any promises
she can't be customised
spreads tranquility and stench with equal
fervor
some old 'loyal' followers
still talk about her
often reminiscing the beauty she was
but then there are the things as should and could
often overpowering the done
Hope the sun shines before
she closes her eyes
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 9:28 AM UTC
Choose! For the Nymph's Androgynous Sake, choose!
Stubble your Scent once this Customised Path
And not from which we prefer to disprove
Which only conceals your justified Wrath
For Harmony - the Toll which Fame does pay
Eats you Alive; And Life indebts your Due
Of we but Spleened Mortals know no other way
But build whatever Blocks we have of you
Smart-Tombed, then, your vast Executive's Plot
Eager for your Rebels assassinate
Even with Healing Truths they ply a-lot
Once lock-bites apply, it will be too late.
Or perhaps alone, your Conscience ignore
These Girls cry your Tissues; And nothing more.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
Dummy turns a plastic cheek,
Ready for a drunk thugs slug of fist on PVC.
Father made dummy boy like some hurried Pinocchio,
But wood was too good,
Too alive,
Too sensing.
Plastic bends and buckles as the brutes words distorts a flexing mind,
Days pass and the dummy child goes to school.
A dummy listens but has no life of its own,
No words, works or wants,
No defence.
School boys laughs at the dummy child,
But the dummy has nothing to return.
Dummy boy leaves school,
Scared, scarred, plastic head stretched like elastic,
Tragic.
A dummy site in a window,
The object of passing eyes and self customised to court attention.
Plastic fool throws himself to the crowd and the whims of those who see his flaws.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 4:10 PM UTC
Entered temple
to do a customised prayer
Something happened
God appeared
But temple disappeared
Me alone with God
God asked, "Any wishes??"
I replied, " No, Wishes give
Comfort not happiness.."
then
wanted
to be in heaven for a day
Agreed,
I was introduced to his Ministers
and we chatted for a while,
I wanted them to play chess
In their side they have
4 queen,
3 bishops
5 elephants
30 pawns
But in my side
As usual of 16 pieces
When asked??
Why such arrangements??
They said
In heaven
We never use brain
We are no match for humans
Got up
from the dream
Then, why the hell
we want
to go heaven..
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
A fire begins somewhere at 4
completing the home
God Queen! – - alright!
The walls and floor boards move
here. and new flesh joins and unwinds
animals grow like colour, hooking the
dinning tables
and making them bleed
like bright silhouettes
and the fashionable mountains and chairs
that we couldn’t afford
bow down, and change within the heat
your hair fits my suit exactly, everything matches the flame
eventually
without any effort, I never thought we could
afford. all this stuff. our portraits drool
as we do, the floor is as warm as the air, we crawl forward
to the carpets and door
that permit our hand
marks, in the clay, and sync like dancing dolls
in the softness of ash
climbing up
the substance of string
closer to the heart-hand that moves them
with ease
we rise again
and walk
like marionettes under fog
we aren’t gone yet, we have good
mind, taste
and the dog bowl
releases its plastic sides to the floor
easier
than pouring ghosts in the rain
our room now matches
perfectly
to the colour books we saw
flicking through chimera
and seeing
one
that looks back.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
One-click shopping,
instant payment –
so convenient;
so ******* easy
to cross over
from being a shopper
to a low-key hoarder.
I don’t buy expensive stuff.
No, nothing excessive.
Just read about a new book,
must-read of the season,
rave reviews on Goodreads.
Available on Amazon?
Yes, it also has a Kindle version.
(See,
even though there is no comparison
between the warmth of a paperback
and the cool efficiency of e-books,
I prefer my Kindle simply because
it’s easier to carry multiple books.)
So I click – buy – get it.
Now it sits
in merry company
of all the books I bought
so ******* conveniently
while I keep rereading the books
I’ve already read.
Don’t get me started
on my obsession with stationery.
Is there any feeling better
than writing on blank paper?
Seeing your busy thoughts
fall in neat lines,
march in formation,
until they reveal the idea underneath.
I keep browsing through the section
of notebooks, journals, diaries,
pencils, pens – oh, there are so many kinds!
I click – buy – get it.
A moment of ecstasy
when the I get the delivery
even though I mostly jot down
any sudden flash of inspiration
on my phone because it’s always handy.
Getting bigger?
Get larger jeans.
No need to stand trial
before judgemental eyes
of the “helpful” salesperson.
Sidestep the self-esteem crisis,
just click – buy – get it.
Easy return policy;
quick refund if it does not fit.
Idly scrolling on social media
and I’m bombarded
with some choice targeted marketing.
How can I refuse
such a customised bait?
Hook, line, click on the link –
there – it’s not that expensive,
nothing too excessive.
I’ll buy that yellow dress,
those cute strappy sandals,
the quirky socks,
ooh a new mascara!
Wear the dress once and chuck it aside,
then go back to cycle the same five outfits.
Put on the mascara,
bat my eyes in jubilation,
then banish it to the drawer
because it gets on my contacts
and causes irritation.
I can go on and on and wax poetic
about the wonders of window-shopping
from the comfort of my couch.
I swear it’s such a great feeling
coming home to find my package waiting.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 12:02 PM UTC
Shoot your gun on 05.40,
then it will says:
"Happy 1/4 of Century"
to you.
Open the book,
& I wrote "Serenity Prayer" to you.
Godspeed, man!
take it as your guidance, as your life shelter.
as God will always be with you.
Big balloons of 25 will be waiting for you in your room,
while your Mom talks to you,
I will inflate it,
pick up your Strawberry Cheesecake &
your gift.
Nothing special really,
I give you customised embroidery art of
"Aquila" Constellation.
& Dylan Blue, as you want me to pick up a perfume for you.
So, Versace it is.
I never really thought,
there would be another project.
But pardon me & my brain, they keep rambling about ideas
& I cannot stop myself from doing all of these things.
This is not just for you.
but also, this one is really for me.
XOXO,
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 12:13 AM UTC
#*Destinies can be customised
ill fate can’t be changed
A jay walk in the middle of chaos
Wise would not be the choice
Less is visible to the eyes of the old
Yet, there is much to behold
A worn out piece of art
Still a part of someone’s heart
Foggy mirrors cool down
And show the truth in light after all*#
Jun 9, 2020
Jun 9, 2020 at 2:45 PM UTC