"dejectedly" poems
An old man clad in orthodox Indian Attire
Entered my bed room. His Pure and white
Dhoti was steeped in blood.
I asked him who he was. He said, ‘I won
Independence for you and Like Jesus
I shed holy blood to purify the Indians”
I asked him the reason for his coming
He said, “I want to establish a political party’
I said, “Your party and you will utterly be defeated”
He asked,” Do Indians forget my sacrifices and me”
“No. We have great respect for you and we remember
You in national festivals and in elections”
But we will not like you to come to power”
Why? He quite surprisingly asked.
“You always plead for truth, non-violence and honesty
And fight against liquor and corruption.
The Indians are really fed up with your principles.
Even your staunchest disciples will not vote for you”
I said and the vision disappeared most dejectedly.
I woke up from my dream wondering where
He had gone .I felt very sorry for the old man
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 6:22 AM UTC
Quiet
A word her peers say
not with appreciation
But with undisguised hate
They never wonder why she doesn't try to pay anyone the time of day
Slouching her shoulders dejectedly as she walks away
And so it's seen as an excuse
For the weak minded with nothing better to do
Who pick and **** and laugh along with the bullies to seem so cool
She's delicate
She once was
pure and soft like the skin she now cuts
In attempt to numb the voices, make them shut up
If only for a little while
But a little whiles never enough
Demons screaming in the shadows of her mind
She sees herself as a ghost whispering
"I'm fine"
Repetitively, endlessly she utters this lie
Disappointed at those who believe it
She's quiet
She never utters a sound
Numb to her surroundings
She's bound
to misery
She's perfection but she'll never believe
Shoulders slumped, pulling down her sleeves
Beauty, As faint as the curve on her lips
The opinion's the blade that now picks
Out her flaws as she prods onto her reflection
The voices overpowering her mind
She's fine
But her weary eyes betray the lie
Her lips can no longer make true
She's broken
Shattered pieces of her lay on the floor
Reflecting just how insecure
She's become
She's far past numb
Inside she's dead
And in the shards of glass scattered on the bed
Is the faint trace of smile
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
Silent and alone, I solemnly gaze at the aged court.
The hallowed roar of a steady stream
Suffocates the atmosphere
Like decrepit statues, they silently stare
The deflated and beaten sphere in my tiny hands.
Bitter tears, from the blackened surface
Prickling my bare feet.
Swish, thump, swish, thump.
The rickety backboard half-heartedly
Gives off a rattling cry.
It's tattered net cannot take much more.
An ashen pit, with stale passion
Surrounding bushes gag
On bleak sunlight.
I dejectedly make shot after hopeless shot.
A taunting figure cackles and booms.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
Eyes darting wildly about the room,
He catches sight of the exit door.
With a burst of energy, he barrels forward,
Freedom just within his grasp.
The nurses chase after him madly,
Flailing about and hollering “Stop!”
His movements swift, he continues to run,
Escape too tantalizing to ignore.
The cold touch of the door handle excites him,
And he jerks the gateway open with great force.
Releasing the handle,
He steps out into an unforeseen world with eyes closed.
For a moment his mind wanders free,
Anxious to experience this new life
Weak from anticipation, his eyelids flutter open
Revealing the desolate dystopia before him.
The sight breaks his heart
As all dreams drain from the face of our man.
He drops his desires to the ground,
And turns dejectedly back to the doorway
Turning the handle again, he steps back inside
Weak with his enlightenment he stumbles,
Down on his knees on the linoleum flooring
He lets out a shriek and the nurses come running,
And he falls
Accepting the familiar warmth of the clinic.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
I heard the door open. It was Leeza (Lisa’s 14-year-old sister),
she’d been out on a date. I was the only one in the living room
as she came in and sagged, dejectedly onto the huge, white
sectional couch, right next to me. She looked positively
deflated. Which is unusual because up until now,
she’s been all freckles and smiles
Ok, here’s where we get poetic and rhyme, with innuendo and allusion:
Me: “Did you have a good time?”
Leeza: “No but I was trying.”
Me: “Did he get handsy—the swine?”
Leeza: “Argh! No—but his kisses are a crime.”
I gasped: “You didn’t give him a climb!?”
Leeza “NO!” she said, somewhat horrified.
Me (trying to be neutral): “No judging, it would have been.. fine (I lied).”
Leeza: “That’s never going to happen.”
“Good,” I declared, “he was just a distraction—and, you know Santa.”
“What about Santa?”
Whew, that’s enough of THAT (rhyming business).
She asked, so, yeah, I sang it.. I had to.
*“He knows who you’ve been kissing,
what you’re thinking when you’re awake,
he knows if you’ve been bad or good—
he’s kind of like a cop that way.”*
After a moment's silence Leeza asked,
“Is there something creepy about that?”
“Only if you think about it.” I admitted,
as she put her head on my shoulder.
.
.
A song for this:
Fairytale of New York (feat. Kirsty MacColl) by The Pogues
.
.
A Christmas Playlist! There’s 6 days til Christmas (and Hanukkah)
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_25.mp3
Dec 19, 2024
Dec 19, 2024 at 12:14 PM UTC
once
my daddy took me to a clearing,
a shrouded cedar and pine
hideaway,
overlooking the distant mountain range,
sticking up like morning hair.
it was sunny,
flowers sprung out of the ground at our feet and
fought their way through the
grass.
he led me to a stump,
"this is where i write when i cant think."
i nodded and took it all in
with open eyes and a
wide mouth, hanging like a trapdoor.
it was beautiful;
the mountains in the distance creating in my
wild imagination
castles like the ones where giants lived,
in the stories that spilled from his lips.
he opened his arms wide like wings
at the highest part of the arching hill,
he closed his eyes and the breeze tousled
his wheat hair, flowers softly caressing his
ankles.
the scruff above his lip and laying on his chin
shined gold in the drifting daylight sun.
he took a deep breath
a humongous breath;
deeper than any i could ever take.
*"this is where i go when i cant
breathe."*
you could hear the echoes of swift trains,
screaming past in the valley
from
Truckee,
carrying chills along with it
every time i heard them.
i never liked that sound.
it was a cacophony of shrieks.
he held my hand
with fingers ten thousand oceans larger than
mine,
and took me into the thickest, deepest part of the woods
where it was dark
and the smell of pine viciously attacked your nostrils,
like a rabid dog.
he let go of my hand,
i let it fall dejectedly to my side.
he slumped down into a pile near the roots of the tree,
a different man:
tired and trying.
he sighed.
*"this is where i go to sleep,
when your mother has had enough of
me."*
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
Gasp!
I stutter!
Chest rising, air-hungry...
Again, I sputter!
Efforts to resuscitate
My grappling form
Are all falling in vain
What is this storm?
Hands reaching out
With a desperate yearn for something
I lost, while I was busy
Extracting, gaining, bargaining.
Parched throat
Unmoistened by water
Tremulous heart
Beating feebler, faster.
No antidote works,
No therapies suffice,
Oxygen flows through,
Still I'm devoid of life.
The world dejectedly shakes its head
Everything known to man
Has been done. But
twists of fate, who can understand?
'Cause in a magical instant,
The Hand divine
Rests on my ebbing existence
One more time.
Once again dysrhythmic heart beats
Start dancing in orderly unison.
Breaths start entering-exiting
In perfect, beautiful, natural fashion.
In goes life,
The reason for my being,
In goes truth,
All knowledge, all meaning.
And finally, after the
Evil, cidal, unending eternity,
Out comes a deep, long, fulfilling
Exhalation of Poetry.
Now, alive, I truly am.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
A secret, forbidden.
Lurks through alleys,
hidden.
An icy breath tickles your chest, while
cerulean flames engulf the night.
A cancer, spotted.
Carves a pathway,
clotted.
Jaundiced rooms ebb and flow, purple
tide pools that dejectedly erode.
A pariah, banished.
Whispers to loved ones,
vanished.
Cannot ignore this chemical ***** golden
glitter still speckled throughout her hair.
A human, forgotten.
Splayed on couches,
rotten.
A look of surprise in his childlike eyes, milky
white oceans that lull him to sleep.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
I don't always see the ghost-
he chooses a wicker chair to sit-
seems to be the problem when past comes to dine.
I don't always see them-
the empty obscure references
as they drip like baby saliva from pale lips
places we've been,
things we've done.
The past sits across.
pinky out daintily
as past will do
when drinking champagne
and talking about the
good days.
I see him like James Dean leaning against the door frame.
I feel like Grace Kelly
Flipping blonde hair flips in dip and twirling curl,
licking pink lips as if they were full of icing on cupcakes.
Yes, I do not see him.
Here I go again flirting with the past.
I do not see the emptiness of the stare
as he looks across to me
I think foolishly it is star crossed love-
and grab his hand to slip wistfully through my own
and pull him grudgingly forward.
I zoom with him room through room,
looking for a place to hold him.
And the present sits forlornly on my front porch.
dejectedly he sits.
And the presents gift-
of soon wilted flower
lay on his lap...
And the present stares through the window
as I waltz with a ghost.
I do not see, I can not see.
I do not see the ghost.
Sahn 10/03/14
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC
Indoors the ornamental grass
within an oblong planter,
stares out dejectedly from its base.
My eyes convey cusping thoughts,
willing the blades to whither -
singeing sideways,
forming yet another nexus
reminding me of Cerrice.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
Tired, I sat on the floor of the shower
and let the water run until
I could feel each individual drop
hit the space between my shoulder blades
like a bullet,
trace the curve of my hunched spine,
and dejectedly slink
to the ground,
where the drain waited hungrily,
ready to swallow all I had to offer,
be it water
or blood.
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 12:43 AM UTC
She tap, tap, tapped her cheap pen
on the yellowing paper.
The ****** paper stared back
a blank, unflinching glare.
Typical.
Frenetically, restlessly,
she set her own metronome faster
with the clicking of her pen
than the outdated clock sulking in the corner
could possibly keep up with.
Suddenly, decisively,
She pushed herself away from the desk.
The screech of the chair’s harsh legs
across a cold, unforgiving concrete floor
filled up the whole room with noise.
Noise was all around her,
empty noise,
invading her ears
her head
her brain.
Stop!
She needed them out.
The room was silent—
Save for her
and the sounds
of an old room
with a dying light
and a faded, ticking clock.
She closed her tired eyes and
drew deeply from the cigarette between her
thin, voiceless lips,
then smudged her little addiction out
leaving a burn stain at the top of her paper.
Might as well,
she figures,
not much good comin’ from this paper
anyways.
And anyways,
the flickering light
in this God-forsaken old office
wasn’t doing her any good, either.
She knew it was time to pack up,
head home,
but she needed this demon inside her
to work for her,
not against her.
‘Writers Anonymous’
that’s where she needed to be—
what she needed
to be a part of.
She had things to say.
And she couldn’t say them.
Flick, flick, bzzz.
The light sputtered,
limping dejectedly through it’s own current,
with a halfhearted commitment to shedding light.
Hanging over her head
just like the ideas
she couldn’t force her hand
to capture on paper.
They needed to be confined, here,
she knew.
These thoughts, buzzing around her head,
like the anxious flicking
and bzzing of the bulb dangling precariously above,
needed to be trapped in this paper,
immortalized externally,
a burden laid down
in incriminating ink before her.
That’s what she needed, she knew.
but no matter how often
or how hard
or how intense
she tap, tap, tapped her pen
on the rickety wooden desk
over the silent white paper
with the cigarette stain in the top corner—
those **** buzzing thoughts
cluttering up her brain
would keep sputtering through life.
Writers Anonymous.
That’s what she needed.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
it's a winter with a drop of
sun next to the pudge-smudge
artwork sweatily traced on the
window, reading: I <3 WINE
with a phallus extending from
the lower W and past the I N E
to limp dejectedly rightward and
down as if the weather were so
beautiful it caused conceptual
******
*or, perhaps we like it rough,
the rain, let's get those rocks
off*
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC
Heart skipped a beat,
and when I turned around
My eyes met your eyes,
and suspended time.
As I held your gaze,
you blinked and looked away.
You felt it, too,
I know you did.
But you killed our moment.
Dejectedly, I turned
Your eyes came back,
light, fire, passion,
caught mine
Suspended again.
forever.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
I wish I could write her a
poem to do justice, but how
does one write a love poem to
the sculpting of her neck. I
love her, not dejectedly, flatly
nor frantically, but full of that
perfect, full pleasure which
whips, through veins and all
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
He ran like the wind up the gangway
saw the door still open
ahead near the door stood four Port attendants
gasping for breaths he reached them
with hands outstretched they stopped him
No, No, No, he cried
I've got to get on, I've got to get on
Sorry sir too late, their voices rang out
I'm afraid Sir, you're too late
What! look the door is still opened
Please, let me in, pleasee for heaven's sake
let me in, I've got to get on board
Sorry Sir, against the rules, you are just too late
but the door is still opened,please I beg you let me in
Afraid can't do that,you are just too late,
just too late today
What Jobsworth you lot are
how inconsiderate can you lot be
the ****** door is still open,why are you being so obstructive
isn't your job to help passengers,isn't that what you're paid to do
do you realize how inconvenient this is, do you realize what this
will cost me'
Sorry Sir, we are only doing our job
You are too late for this flight,go back to the departure Lounge
They'll help get you on a later flight,sorry but Rules are Rules
And with that the plane doors were closed
Oh..how he hated these ********* ****** unhelpful inconsiderate
Jobsworth, ****** idiots, the whole lot of them, arseholes!
Dejectedly,he walked back to the ****** Departure Lounge
Fuming, dragging his ****** attache case, he sought out the
help desk
Cursing and muttering, he rued the ******* two minutes delay
that cost him this flight.
Angrily, he marched to the Air Ethiopia Check in desk
Sullenly he explained his plight!
Its a two hour wait for the next flight out, they informed him.
Still upset, he handed in his ticket and they did the necessary
Handing back his ticket, he walked away and sat in Departure
why, oh why did this happen to me, he muttered angrily
He sat miserably, he cursed again under his breath. **** God!
He had been sitting for about an hour when he noticed
people suddenly running around, something was happening
There was a real air of panic around, Officials were running
helter skelter, people were huddling in pockets, he saw
Police Official barking orders and Airport Staff talking excitedly
He heard some people shouting in a group to his right
He stood up alarmed
he stated walking towards a group to his left
Then he saw one of the Jobsworth that had stopped him from boarding his flight, the Jobsworth had a look of utter alarm
on his face, he was also sweating.
What's happening, what's wrong, he asked him, now alarmed himself.
Oh Sir, ooh Sir...the Jobsworth exclaimed, looking at him wide-eyed.
That Plane you missed has just crashed, killing everybody on board.....!!!
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC
It was what one might call a rainy day, but I had called it a melancholy of nature. Everything had been sorrowfully drenched as if the rain itself was weighing on their minds. A heavy mist had settled just above the cold ground, one that limited your vision to only a few feet. The pavement had no cracks, no indentations for mournful puddles to dejectedly form.
Indeed, as I walked down the endless paved path, It seemed as though I was the only one here. As though an eternity had stretched itself around me, around this single moment in time. And I could walk, and walk until time ended.
As rain rolled down the hood of my gray raincoat, thoughts and memories ran slowly through my mind like a slideshow of bittersweet emotion. I fingered the strap over my shoulder. I had, of course, brought my camera.
My camera, an old Polaroid, had served me well. I had once dreamt of being a photographer, but as my dreams for the future had disappeared, my film was eventually empty. Now, it was nothing more than a memento of the past.
I began to approach a figure standing alone in the rain, though they seemed dry. They wore a raincoat, much like mine, except a dark shade of purple. They had no camera, and would not face me, but followed when I began to pass. As we walked together down the paved road, they continued to face the ground, seemingly avoiding my gaze.
I did not know who they were, nor where they came from, other than the mist. They seemed almost familiar, and yet they did not seem tangible. I heard them take a small breath, as though they were gathering their courage. Then, they said,
“Always. . .” They stopped for a moment and then began to speak again. “Let your heart decide what is the truth. Then, let your brain decide how to explain that to others. And never be ashamed of who you are. For when you are true to yourself, your creator cannot be disappointed; they have made you be that way.”
I heard the sigh, who I then guessed was a girl about my age, and then watched her stop, fading out of my view as a continued to walk through the mist.
I cannot say with certainty that I ever saw her again.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
I'm alone again.
Not literally,
But mentally alone.
Trying to battle my thoughts.
I'm lost again.
Not literally,
But emotionally lost.
Staring blankly, dejectedly, at my reflection.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
Don’t look at me through eyes
like the fog that clothes the valley
on an early morning in spring
and say that you are not free.
Willful and wild, you are the wind.
You could spring upwards as though on wings,
singing and dancing,
entrancingly lively as you slide over the lilac.
Don’t tell me you feel trapped,
that you’ve shorn off your wings
and built a bunker, brick by brick,
where the wind no longer touches.
“You are free” I tell you.
How can I show you what I know:
that you were meant to fly?
Carefree and breezily as the clouds in the sky?
But when I say “go! fly away!”
You dejectedly stand,
and when I say “you are free”
you just don’t understand.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 6:25 AM UTC
Jimmu is walking dejectedly
he gazes at your smile
and makes amends to the sky
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC