"deschanel" poems
I’m not good at being forward
I have this habit of becoming disordered
I let my emotions change the color of my sleeve
In my aspirations I hope to find belief
I walk through jungles and rainforests
Once in a while I see through the canopy
Into the skies of my memories
And request that stars dance to the rhythm of us
I keep them alive to avoid the gathering of dust
My memories, caught in the Pensieve of your eyes
Have ignored all the times I told myself lies
I may not be your ideal Superman
But I’d accept Peter Pan if you’ll go with me to Neverland
I’ve rarely been so captivated by a girl
Sure, Zooey Deschanel is quirky in New Girl
And Emma Watson bewitched me from the start
Anna Kendrick was perfect in Pitch Perfect
Alex Morgan is the luckiest 13 I’ve ever seen
But I choose you! To fill my canteen
You quench my thirst when the loneliness dries me
I was not made to walk in a desert
My heart is an amphibian
Living like a Floridian in the ice-cold tundra we call Rexburg
You still need the sun, no matter how much it snows
I’ll trudge on in the jungle; dormant in the night
I’ll carry on with you in mind, until the time is right
Once I’ve faced death, or even a spider
Then, I think I’ll top the greats; George of the Jungle, Aslan, Mogly, Tarzan, Batman, Peter Pan, Harry Potter, Genghis Kahn, Michael… Jackson or Jordan
They’re all kings and I’ll be in their league
As I shake off the fatigue and find courage in you
To make it through the awkward moment of simply saying
“You’re a real kind of gorgeous”
In that chorus, played on my rhythm of heartbeats
I found my way out of the back streets
From deep in the jungle I’ve come to know as Fear
A jungle that disappears when your presence is near
Sometimes I have to stop walking, stop thinking
I feel like I’m on the verge of something spectacular
Anything normal might ruin that
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.
It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.
It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.
This poem is *****
a SNAFU waiting to happen.
It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.
This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.
This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.
This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.
It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.
It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.
This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.
It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.
Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.
This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
I am tired of being an empty shell that you find beautiful & eccentric.
I am tired of being a trope made by authors and directors.
I am like war and peace and not like a tissue paper you made me out to be.
I am tired of being your favourite shade of red.
I am tired of being a brush stroke, when I am the entire painting.
I am tired of being pinned to a pedestal.
I am tired of my existence and my name being relative.
I am tired of being a zany sidekick to the male protagonist in the movie that is my life.
I am tired of you thinking that I need help stilling the edges of my narrative, who longs for a tether or a buoy to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
I am tired of being told – unconventional, different and other such synonyms by boys, that I am not like other girls as if they are a disease and I am magic.
I am tired to be known as someone with wacky quirks and idiosyncrasies.
I am tired of being Alaska Young.
I am tired of being Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
I am tired of being Tiffany from The Silver Linings Playbook.
I am tired of being tagged as Sam from Garden State.
Or even Marla Singer from Fight Club.
Or even an Amelie or Penny from Almost Famous.
And every Zooey Deschanel character.
I am a Clementine.
I’m a Sylvia Plath.
I’m a Dorothy Parker.
A Maya and a Margaret.
You see, I am well versed
in death and in silence.
I have my interests and I am like all of the above. But I am “like” them. I am not them.
I am me.
I am scared now.
Scared of boys claiming to be wrapped in barbed wire
but is really a caged petting animal in the zoo.
I am tired of boys who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel.
But, most importantly I am tired.
Tired of men not falling in love with me
but instead falling in love with the idea of me.
Nomoreokaythankyouplease.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
He was the kind of boy that would listen to you talk about your dreams
And watch you try on a series of hats only to tell you he didn't like any of them.
This boy that could talk about kiwis
without seeming dull.
He had an affinity for hip hop music and ironic T shirts
and fancied himself a good club crawl every now and again.
The two P's were often on his dinner menu (pasta and pesto)
And he was quirky.
Not in a Zooey Deschanel kind of way,
But in the way that is effortless.
In the way that intrigues people.
Intrigues me.
He wasn't the kind of boy you read about in books,
but should have books written about him.
I wanted to be the one to write it.
It started off as a fan-fiction
and ended as wishful thinking.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
I've dated an artist for over two years
of headaches and yeast infections.
He's skinny, hairy, and the pointdexter I never knew I wanted.
I never wanted a man
to pin me to his wall as some temporary masterpiece.
But life comes and
kills us into what it wants us to be.
Every time I say “Let's stop”—
I shake my mind like empty soda cans
and roll over and take him again.
My trouble is
I love getting ******
Though we call it something else, truth is
I am his ***** It's an artistic statement
that's been done a million times over. But he needs me
to tell him he's brilliant.
And so, I bury my cheeks into his chest fur.
Feeling its scratches like a returning stray at the door,
As he twirls his finger around in my mouth
romancing me into
something lovely and agreeable as Zooey Deschanel.
I hope one day I can break away and
just be
my own ***** again. But for now, I walk on all-fours
bent over in sharp-submission
and it's
delicious.
For we are nothing more
than two hungry dogs, running back to each other
panting and stinking
through the pouring rain.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
i was your manic pixie dream girl. i was just a hollow shell that you found beautiful and mysterious. in the letters you wrote to me, you compared me to zooey deschanel and the way all her characters seem to hide themselves under layers, waiting to be peeled back and understood by some unsuspecting male who needed a woman to make the story of their lives progress. but even after a year and a half, you failed to view me as a person and not a trope devised by authors and screenwriters with ***** that shriveled into their bodies. i thought i meant more to you, and you still probably believe i was just a lucky accident in your life. i've moved on to find boys that can almost see through me, even though i'm like war and peace and not the tissue paper you made me out to be. they can see i have a heart and guts and am more than a smattering of your favorite shade of blue on a canvas. you thought of me as a brush stroke, but baby, i'm the whole ******* painting.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC