"denouncements" poems - Hello Poetry

"Funny poems aren't taken seriously", the figure splashes verbal acid over the crumpled piece of paper I handed them. Refusing to laugh Curling their lip. The paper quickly, without a thought, thrusted back into my hands. They leave behind my thought which fills the space between myself, fidgeting alone and them, striding away. *Does it have to be serious to be taken seriously?* A mental court gathers itself around me Myself, a defense attorney Pointing a stained finger at the figure on the stand. I present the shoe-eating Peruvian and his limerick friends. Generations of drinking songs often crass, but lasting. There is laughter from the jury There is hope for the poems. Then my final evidence the crumpled paper I read it aloud silence. Is split by the dull chuckle of the figure elbows in suit jacket pressed against the stand. "Sure, there's examples from the past, but you? the troubled kid? the depressed one? the pariah?" I glance at more files, appearing, my name on each. analysis, evaluation, diagnosis, test. Laughter, the type that jeers, grows into a crescendo. I huddle, hands over ears, creasing my suit but the muted version is worse. I stagger to my feet. The court has morphed cruelly into an arena of sorts. Brutal, simple, life-ending decisions are made here. My jacket is gone My cheek openly bleeds My sleeves have ripped revealing the scars below. I hurl out, from deep within me "It's because I'm ****** up that I need to write it! Don't you understand? Making people laugh keeps and edge off the old habits keeps the thoughts where they belong!" My voice is hoarse. The arena tightens. Even as I say it, I'm overwhelmed by the thoughts That I do not belong. That a funny poem punctuated by my fingers despite their past harm delivered from my mouth despite its harsh denouncements and shared by my whole self despite my self-banishment is not enough. I sink to the ground, stripped of my senses. My poems have turned course once helping ease pain, now proliferating it. My fingernails pierce the palm of my hand through the crumpled paper and two drops of blood strike the tiles. I meant for this to be a funny poem But I guess it's about why some people need to write them.

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Apr 2, 2015

Apr 2, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC

jake-austin

This is a Funny Poem

"Funny poems aren't taken seriously", the figure splashes verbal acid over the crumpled piece of paper I handed them. Refusing to laugh Curling their lip. The paper quickly, without a thought, thrusted back into my hands. They leave behind my thought which fills the space between myself, fidgeting alone and them, striding away. *Does it have to be serious to be taken seriously?* A mental court gathers itself around me Myself, a defense attorney Pointing a stained finger at the figure on the stand. I present the shoe-eating Peruvian and his limerick friends. Generations of drinking songs often crass, but lasting. There is laughter from the jury There is hope for the poems. Then my final evidence the crumpled paper I read it aloud silence. Is split by the dull chuckle of the figure elbows in suit jacket pressed against the stand. "Sure, there's examples from the past, but you? the troubled kid? the depressed one? the pariah?" I glance at more files, appearing, my name on each. analysis, evaluation, diagnosis, test. Laughter, the type that jeers, grows into a crescendo. I huddle, hands over ears, creasing my suit but the muted version is worse. I stagger to my feet. The court has morphed cruelly into an arena of sorts. Brutal, simple, life-ending decisions are made here. My jacket is gone My cheek openly bleeds My sleeves have ripped revealing the scars below. I hurl out, from deep within me "It's because I'm ****** up that I need to write it! Don't you understand? Making people laugh keeps and edge off the old habits keeps the thoughts where they belong!" My voice is hoarse. The arena tightens. Even as I say it, I'm overwhelmed by the thoughts That I do not belong. That a funny poem punctuated by my fingers despite their past harm delivered from my mouth despite its harsh denouncements and shared by my whole self despite my self-banishment is not enough. I sink to the ground, stripped of my senses. My poems have turned course once helping ease pain, now proliferating it. My fingernails pierce the palm of my hand through the crumpled paper and two drops of blood strike the tiles. I meant for this to be a funny poem But I guess it's about why some people need to write them.

84

Some of the foulest things Were conceived In the most beautiful Of places The pure alpine breeze Cooled the mechanics Of the elimination Of races Verdant green The backdrop For reeducation Stark Mother Russia The denouncements The Cossackification White Plains Trinity The United Nations.

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Jun 23, 2025

Jun 23, 2025 at 6:01 PM UTC

Jimmysilker

Evil retreats to beauty

Some of the foulest things Were conceived In the most beautiful Of places The pure alpine breeze Cooled the mechanics Of the elimination Of races Verdant green The backdrop For reeducation Stark Mother Russia The denouncements The Cossackification White Plains Trinity The United Nations.

17

Go big or go home I dream of Rome Forget Internet Explorer, more Google Chrome I'm the whole package, yet they think I'm Foam They swerve the road, hit the cones I make one mistake, chip my bones Then I drone Over it Moving onto the next big thing I know when I make it Because that's when the Choir sings From the approval of others I own this field, secretly undercover Don't try to smuther My potential Chances are, you're scared of my credentials I shoot the free throw I'll ignore your denouncements, you already know Who caught all those wins in a row? Took all the losses while you complained about your bosses This talk is preposterous Coming in full force like a Rhinoceros There's always a rise and fall to this

0

Apr 14, 2018

Apr 14, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC

peter-r-hamilton

Make The Shot

Go big or go home I dream of Rome Forget Internet Explorer, more Google Chrome I'm the whole package, yet they think I'm Foam They swerve the road, hit the cones I make one mistake, chip my bones Then I drone Over it Moving onto the next big thing I know when I make it Because that's when the Choir sings From the approval of others I own this field, secretly undercover Don't try to smuther My potential Chances are, you're scared of my credentials I shoot the free throw I'll ignore your denouncements, you already know Who caught all those wins in a row? Took all the losses while you complained about your bosses This talk is preposterous Coming in full force like a Rhinoceros There's always a rise and fall to this

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