"depreciation" poems
The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation.
The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath.
Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-ass what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation.
Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind.
This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial.
Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
Broke
Unable to finalize any purchase
Checking
For change in the last places that one searches
Insufficient
To the point I'm unable to ward off the throes of destitution
Bankrupted
By devaluing those who have not made restitution
Insolvent
To the point of having to fight off the urge to curse
Disallowed by the prose that places value and give credit....to verse
Denied
Any credit accrued....maybe even unearned
Reevaluation
With no accounting for the time you
SPENT
Learning what you have learned
Depreciation or Appreciation
Cannot be quantified by the lack of someone.saying thanks
Interest will eventually be of value
Once accrued... but for now I must accept
That I'm simply overdrawn at my memory banks
Investment in my own value
Will allow me growth
In my own ...
......personal
Checking account
Helping me in balancing the books
Keeping me payed up and happy
BY
Always giving others their true valuation
So that ego doesnt become a currency
That is subject to... such a devastating inflation
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
When the spit leaves his mouth like acid,
Speckles my face with scars and tears,
Insults are last place in my minds marathon.
The self depreciation is a serrated knife,
Plucking at the strings in my chest.
And with each snap, I am closer to collapsing.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
Watching life’s play,
From the nosebleed section.
If I die today,
It’s natural selection.
I hear what people say,
But don’t make the connection,
The past fades away,
To a vague recollection.
99 problems,
No retorts or solutions,
Trying to pay my bills,
Without resorting to prostitution.
Losing is a life lesson,
Hard to learn,
It’s a truth I mention,
In no uncertain terms.
They say if you get knocked down,
Get back up,
But sometimes when I’m knocked out,
I’ve had enough.
My drive and ambition,
Is out of gas,
But I’m stuck in my position,
Can’t change the past.
They said, “It’s okay chum,
There’s a future to make.”
But no, it’s okay son,
I choose not to partake.
I’m on the road of life,
Just taking a jog,
But I can’t run right,
Cause I’m an underdog.
I know I’m not perfect,
I’ve made mistakes,
But I really do deserve it,
So give me a break.
Girlfriend told me,
I’d never succeed.
I choked at her,
Cause I forgot to breathe.
I was told to walk,
Off the beaten track,
I talk one step forward,
Then whisper two steps back.
I’ve been made a fool,
I’ve played the clown,
I never broke the rules,
But I still broke down.
When I look in the mirror,
To examine my features,
It brakes when brought nearer,
So I pick up the pieces.
You know I don’t deal,
In self depreciation,
So what you find here,
Is honest estimation.
I’m not clever as Copernicus,
Or strong as King Kong,
Even when you’re learning this,
You knew it all along.
I’m on the road of life,
Drifting through the fog,
But I can’t see tonight,
Cause I’m an underdog.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
Why the ****
is seemingly everyone
so ******* slutty?
What the **** happened
to maintenance
of Integrity?
******
for the right words
or for the right look
or the right price
or the right Music
or the *right *****
the most important motivation to many
seems to be *Instant ******* Gratification*:
Please.
Such folly is childish:
Males and Females alike
seem to be equally Hedonistic
and selfishly manipulative:
What dissolute, reckless, selfish
Depravity of Sanctity
hath seized our Minds
with such wrathful, gluttonous, vain, lustful, and self-destructive
Epicureanism?
It seems to me
a Mind of Displeasure
recklessly seeks Indulgence,
and thus encounters overindulgence,
which then leads to overstimulation,
which in turn leads to depreciation,
which then manifests itself
as Debauchery.
Reputation
precedes you;
it follows you
as your social Wake;
Reputation
is the Name
for the Ripples
cast by One's actions;
Sometimes it is mere gossip,
rooted in vile, childish Spite;
but most times,
it seems karmic as ****
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
Why ask why I like your poem? Be courageous in your ideas and ideals. Be confident enough to know that your work is true to your vision. Artists of all kinds, but especially poets, are the philosophers and prophets of their generation. A revelation does not passive-aggressively seek to be worthy. It just is. Revelators, in the converse, often are compelled to seek praise with false humility via the age old pretentious depreciation of the value of their work in order to reap praise, which is the expected polite response. It is a waltz I choose to sit out. I feel it is less than honest and a disrespect to the poet and the poem to revel in such frivolity. Write for the sake of revelation, not for the accolades of topical praise. It is no business of the poet why a poem strykes chords with a reader. Simply allow it to happen. Talent and truth are not always equatable, nor are beauty and integrity always comparable. In the heart, a poet knows he is a poet. By the very construct of your words, Poet, may you be the caster of many spells. Thank-you for sharing a bit of yourself with me. I bid thee Love and Light.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
The continuous pondering of life after death has recently plagued our existence
This might be a hindrance for our previously unfailing pious persistence
Thoughts arise that cause an imbalance in the tumultuous mind
Free you, they might, of the pacts into which you yourself do bind
Magnanimous flatulence shall reign unbridled upon the fields of plenty
But the door to unanimous qunatipulation shall come unhinged on the count of twenty
Promiscuity leads to a mind frame disgusted by a joyous initiation
Humongous amounts of gelatinous goo shall be written off as depreciation
Pig tails and concubines disperse with molecular ease
While the dead paperweights converse heatedly in Cantonese
May these words sit upon you, heavy as the dark interstellar skies
May your brain be confounded, let no infallible logic suffice
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
he said,
"please stay."
and so she did.
for a little while.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
Don’t, don’t touch me,I can’t believe you hurl next to me trying to harass me.
Wasn’t it enough that we exchanged our vows in matrimony,
And you frotted off to another woman’s sack the day that you met me.
Remember how we met, all head over heels for you, happy that you made a commitment; talking and jazzing it up leaving our conversations unrested.
We travelled the world, but you left me behind and travelled with words,yes you.
You left me behind thinking I was deaf, blind and unnerved, you lied.
You were a liar, a thief and a drunk all mashed into one.
Oh how monogamy changed you!
Our child came, she was beautiful but you didn’t turn up in the delivery room.
Who was there to support me? I gave birth; you gave me no backbone.
She grew up, you grew too and I stayed still working my life away incessantly.
Appreciation? No.
Depreciation? Yes.
You moved away thinking you could get away,
you took her away from me and into your care, but there was no care.
Now I was stuck in another country trying to support this family, but who do I find out you were caring so eerily? Another woman who underestimated me, spending the money I sent for my daughter in her education, for her own reclamations.
When I went home she was estranged from me,
oh how she’ll hug me next to daylight just to get a whiff of my scent.
We played, we fooled, I showed her what it is to be a lady, but I didn’t know the worse of it as she was being held hostage, clammed up into a little shell having no hope and no glory by those that I left her behind with the trusted reveries.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
I'm a
merry-go-man
stand in one spot
I'll appear again
my gallant steed is just
a plastic stallion
sowing seeds of lust
and self depreciation
my feet are tied
to his stirrups
I can't be loose of them
for I am knifeless
just let me fly
from this merry-go-life
again
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
Something wrong somewhere?
River is supposed to carry water not silt!
It supposed to bless us with water and humus!
But not with sandcasting!
Something wrong somewhere?
Forest is supposed to encompass us with diversity of fortune not with weeds!
It supposed to bless with wilderness of life and opportunity to learn relationship
But not with generation of threat and depreciation!
Something wrong somewhere?
Road supposed to provides us way to transfer,
Transfer of goods and services of our toil
Transfer of knowledge, idea and skills for betterment!
Not to transfer all the venom of destruction!
Destruction of nature, culture and people!
Something wrong somewhere?
Ruler suppose take position for welfare of all
Not for material gain, congregation of power and arriving at fame!
Something wrong somewhere?
People supposed to stand by the people in joy and in misfortune!
Suppose to stand for brotherhood and posterity
But not to abuse and overthrow!
Something wrong somewhere in the commencement
We unable to learn
‘How to learn and make decision!’
Because every decision spoils our dream, robbed our mammon of life!
Something wrong somewhere
Need to start it again from the beginning!
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
If I was a work of art I'd be a poem
but just a blank white sheet of generic notebook paper
and you would be a symphony
which sounds pretty beautiful
but I never really liked Bach and
I never really liked Beethoven and
I never really liked Mozart and
I never really liked
myself
but
ohmygoddidIlikeyou
like Da Vinci liked Mona and
Dali liked
l
o
n
g
d r i p i n g
p
brush strokes depicting surrealist scenes and
Picasso liked Cubism and
Van Gogh liked his own ******* sadness and a tub of sunflower-yellow paint and that girl
he sent his neatly packaged and not-so-neatly severed off ear to
though
I suppose
artists are supposed to hate their art
with a burning self-depreciation sort of self-determination or
at least that's what I got from
Plant and Lydon and Cobain and
every other shooting star rock-and-roll phenomenon with their name engraved on a plaque somewhere
and a drug problem that procured a thousand cigarettes now just as burnt out as they are
but here's the thing
you aren't my art
you
are a breathing
walking
talking
self-portrait that sputters to life every morning
with an accent on each note
like I said
if we were art
you would be a symphony
but the orchestra
is crescondo-ing to no end now and
quite frankly I am tired of all these high-pitched violin marcatos and
I am losing myself in the repeats and
I am just wondering when the fine will come
like I said
if we were art
I would be a poem
that was just an empty piece of drab old paper
much too conventional and clean and
empty
to be appreciated
but
I guess a beginning in the form of an empty sheet of paper is all
Poe and Frost and Plath and
Auden and Silverstein and Dickinson and
Shakespeare and Bukowski and Cummings
had in common
anyway.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
History is inherently
full of self-depreciation
studiously staging its ugliness.
It masks the truth of its beauty:
The painful present
birthing breath to the future.
© Qwey.ku 2023
Dec 24, 2023
Dec 24, 2023 at 4:17 AM UTC
Knees weak and trembling
Lost to rhythm, lost to times
To the flashing lights and ancient lies
Of your laugh and ****** humor,
To your eyes and wrinkled warped wisdom
With how you always held your hands,
With the million ways you used them
And the games we would play
All the days spent on repeat
Poison broken hope hid in hell and
Torment disguising the life and decay
In the bottom of your soul
gone.
Your immense presence dwindling
Into nothing as you cave in.
Defined by your addiction,
Owned and liberated to be
Defined by your prognoses
Still hosting those same feelings
Of self hate, depreciation
Creating your own hell
For temporary damnation
I pray you save yourself,
There’s no one here to help you.
I’m sorry I couldn't stop you,
I’m sorry your life haunts you
Weighs on you taunts you like the guilt
Causing pressure on your chest,
Lung cancer it spreads,
I hate to whisper to myself
Because all that’s left to be said
Is you shouldn't hold your breath.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
Tones of depreciation eject forth estuaries of spittle
Causing unsought billows of panic
Why can’t society be more appreciative
Instead of dejecting them
And divesting them of criticism
Communication is significant
Yet people omit it’s qualities
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC
Like machinery with use,
Life by time depreciates
Towards eternity.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
tightrope walking on
litanies of monsoon
misplaced
yet, eluded by routines
in this like minded minds
too many
sugar spoon fed
blame and
depreciation in a
positive
view of the world
too many
jaded mouths echoing the
same values that was ripped
right from the spine of
human kind
beginnings
these days
youth means being
unheard
unnoticed
only riots of sounds
that is deemed too
foolish to
amount to anything
a neon sign of all the things
that would rather be
denied
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
I watched you fall in love with the blue bird.
When the weight of whatever you shouldered left you feeling like a cracked sidewalk. When the contents of your head look like a dirt patch with no Flora.
I watched you sink your hope in its wings. I watched you open your beak and tweet out a plea that someone would make sense of your puzzle pieces
Do you know that feeling, when you love someone who hates themselves. Like trying to paint a picture in the rain. Watching whatever you have to give dilute in the depreciation, your affection can't **** depression. But you had to try.
To me being absolutely powerless wasn't enough to stop trying so I tried.
I fashioned cannonballs out of phone calls Fired at any wall that seem to cage your smile.
I'm more difficult Days you’d dance between dejection and distress. I'd watch you waltz between the lines of every conversation you had that day and you overthink entities into the world around you. Demons that would pull at your eyelids as you tried to rest. Clawing abysses that sat in your stomach. You thought if you consumed nothing you could starve them before yourself. You built an army of opponents all born from the belief that your calm sat beyond your own two hands. That the long drawn and difficult sighs you choked through was just how breathing worked.
You believed it was meant to hurt this much...and it did, and it does, but it's not supposed to.
Your graces hung in my sky like a star, and what would dim your shine would in turn dim mine
So I tried..
I’d say… talk to me.
A quiet plea, hoping you'd articulate the things I hadn’t seen.
But you existed behind a phone screen
You were swept away by the blue birds.
You slept in its nest hoping it would always return your quick fix.
You were one with the roost and your song was only audible through an application.
I lost a piece of you to twitter.
You slept in my bed.. we’d skip between oxytocin dreams of lustful energy or blissful lethargy and if the slumber was harmed we’d make enemies of snooze alarms. I knew frequency of your finger tips. I was in tune with the cacophony of your head space I curated the museum your beauty sat it. But you didn’t care. The bars between us looked more and more like hastags every day. Slowly I became just another follower... In 140 characters or less.. “My concern was the only thing you didn’t think was worth retweeting”
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
It is hard to imagine
Seeing a whole person
When the mirror shattered
And left shards in the same shape
As the scars on my arms
That divide me into two people.
one I wish I could escape
one who refuses to give way
To anything other than
Depreciation
Unwelcomed recollection
On times of skin fairer, clearer, kinder
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
Birds sing and fly
Flowers smile
Rivers flow
Mountains invite
Rainbows bend in
Seven colours
Sunset and sunrise
Do not amaze us
With their beauty
Their beauty
We do not care
With them we cannot pair
We do not have time
To stand and stare
At them to feel
And heal our broken selves
We catch them
In our cameras mechanically
Showing off our taste
In a haste lest the time
Should pass between
Our fingers stealthily!
We are busy fighting
Over a dead carcass
We use all our might
To prove our commonness!
While Nature laughs at
The grotesqueness of humanity
Its song, fragrance, breathtaking heights,
Soothing colours that might bring sanity
Are squandered and drowned in the rites
Of violence engraving epitaphs at
The doors of suffering humanity!
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
the night envelopes
me in its heaviness
the air,
so tricky in its whispers,
tells me i can breathe.
i don't believe it.
the pulsing between my
legs won't quit
wound up, starved
ragged
the ticking of
self-depreciation
keeps my body
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
i am a collector
i collect tears and panic attacks
scratched skin and nervous twitches
Over the years i've accumulated much
i collect desperate whispers to nothing in the dark
choked sighs, and raw swallows
i've collected rare winter princes and indian summers
then bittersweet kisses and hollow darkened loneliness
i collect i miss you's they'll never hear
and haunting memories that **** your breath away like a deep gust of wind
i have a gallery filled with years of depression
i collect plaguing relentless thoughts of self depreciation
should've, would've, cant's.
i've got bags and bags full of fears and failure.
There were those times i thought i found promises,
but only turned out accumulating more lies.
i've got a surplus of hurt, and pain
i've collected those times of overeating, under-eating, self harm, self medication.
At night especially, the walls come alive,
Shall i show you my collection?
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC