"detests" poems
One friend is deaf but manages to hear twice as much as I do,
while simultaneously embedding himself in games and genius.
One friend is kind and smart, always complimenting and supporting others before herself.
One friend is quiet, and she is both easily embarrassed
and easily embarrassing.
One friend is the previous friend's brother,
and crushes on me while never saying enough.
One friend is very intelligent and geeky,
and detests wearing skirts even more than I.
One friend is really in your face and dramatic,
pushing the boundaries on everything, but noone hates him.
One friend is the unfortunate brother of a great annoyance, but is her polar opposite.
One friend has hair of constantly changing color;
blue, green, pink, black, yellow, brown,
but always the same hoodie no matter her hair choice.
One friend has a thousand faux laughs,
but guards his true one from the light.
One friend has a mocking joke for everything,
and you can't help but laugh with her.
One friend has a treasured hat and while sketching everyone, everything, and everywhere, lays my insecurities to rest as I do the same for him, both of us in need of some love
and understanding from a kindred spirit.
One friend has an obsession with a band and a book and a show, and an overbubbling enthusiasm for everything in her life.
One friend has a meme for everything,
and a perverse thought for every situation he encounters.
One friend is half blind but she manages to see twice
as much as me and explains everything beautifully.
One friend is crazy and gets away with the exclamation of abraham lincoln in any awkward silence because its just his nature.
One friend is as a mouse, but a genius in every aspect
and hides behind her glasses.
One friend is obnoxiously loud and more of a dork than the gangster his hoodie implies so everyone simply laughs.
One friend smiles like a duck in the cutest way,
and wears her square glasses in the best way.
One friend longs for a love that is loyal
and hide s behind his temperment
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:58 PM UTC
It's within the grown out roots
where the Garden Owl still hoots
Sings the melancholy song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong.
It's within the thatching of the dwelling
And a failed attempt at fortune telling.
Beyond the garden of the bugs
Beyond the magpies and the slugs
A moon was folded into quarters
Grind it with pestle and mortar
Strip it down to crater powder
Feel it till the song sounds louder
The Garden Owl sings his song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong
And under the brown thatched roof
The girl detests her blue eyed youth
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Society detests innocence
Often shaking hands with ignorance
Exchanging phone numbers with bliss.
We hate it cause we’re jealous.
So we send loaded words their way.
Our mouths, like pistols
shooting bullets full of hate.
Someday we shall see the error of our ways.
Until then,
******
We call him.
He who has yet to be used,
Or more so, use another for pleasure
****** and then leave a woman and a ******
on a Hotel’s bathroom floor,
alone and broken.
Square.
We say
To she who has never felt the itch.
Needed so badly to scratch it
and get her fix
that she steal from her two month old daughters college fund
so she can fly away and forget….
Try as we may, we never forget
How it feels to fall from the sky.
So, we know how to make a mockingbird cry.
We know how to make a mockingbird cry.
And we know how it feels
to **** one
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 8:02 AM UTC
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.
To My Valentine
by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.
The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.
More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.
As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.
I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.
The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.
TO MY VALENTINE
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
The blacksmith
He sees what he wants and he approaches it
Strikes a deal with this item
And starts his work on it
'baby you are looking fat' he says, 'why don't you sign up at the nearest gym'
'baby, this make up is a bit much, why don't you cut down on it'
'baby, you should dress like this, I prefer mini skirts to long trousers'
'I don't think I like your friend, she makes me feel uncomfortable, stop talking to her'
He makes all this changes and more to his new item, looking now at the finished product, he detests the works of his own hands, but why, he created this, he made and shaped this item into his own liking, lo has he outgrown it?, like a little child, has he found a better thing to call toy?, like a blacksmith, he'd leave the works of his hands to attend to a new one....blacksmiths are not contented, they strive for perfection, the perfect sword, the perfect shield, the perfect girl.
Little do they know, to be perfect is to be contented.
Pray you don't come across a blacksmith :)
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
I twist and turn,
Suffle in my
Hospital bed.
The drum of
The dextrose drops,
Plays as the background
For my despondent lulluby.
Clickering and clackering;
The white feet
On the frozen
Hospital floor
Feature the vocals
Of the weeping relatives
I do not know.
A chorus
Of morose songs
That bellow
From the valley
Of faded faces
Dulls the senses
Of the patients
In the ICU.
Doctors wearing
White garbs
With darkened eyes
Whisper to each other
Like a cult gathering
With prayers
And curses
On their lips.
They appear
To me
Like snakes
On the tree
Throwing sins
And travesties
To the
Invalid saints.
I, fight fervently
Against sleep.
Although almost
Twenty-four,
Am a child
Again.
A child who
Detests sleep
Like the plague
That took me.
In this hospital bed
I start my vigil;
A pilgrim to zion
Daunted by
The task before him.
Beset on all sides
By treasures
And trinkets
That would
Want him stray.
My eyes serve
As the lamp
To which
My body,
A servant,
Keeps alight.
In wait
For the return
Of the master.
An encounter
To rekindle
The bond
In childhood.
A chance
To decide
Which fashion
It will end.
So eyes,
Stay alight,
For your oil
Will only
Last one night;
Keep the fight.
Despondency
May fill these
Final moments
But at the moment
Of the master's
Return
The chorus
Of faded faces
Will turn into
Choirs of angels
And there;
Sleep.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
I can read your mind,
through the prism in your eyes.
I can see the reflections that seems narrow,
and the brightness of sorrow.
The fear of mortality,
that shines in your sighs,
and detests your reality.
You've collapsed to ambitions,
losing a battle
far from the lands and
that rests in your soul of civilisation.
fight from this dread,to find a way.
fight like u do to overcome your ogre.
You might wonder at the blank sky,
that seems to choke of stars
that'll call upon u to pry.
You fear of the answer that lurks,
the questions that bite you deep,
and gives u a crunch.
fight from this dread,to find a way.
fight like u do to overcome your ogre.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
Dear Autumn,
I feel that with the arrival of you, my favourite season,
I have found myself on a path that I wanted to never again tread.
Whilst your leaves are falling, they do not crunch
like they have in the years that have passed.
And it's started to rain, Autumn. The novel that is my life,
it detests the pathetic fallacy you provide.
Last week your wind forgot me, forgot to fill my lungs
with life and hope and I still struggle to breathe.
I did not shake because of the cold, Autumn,
but because of this cave, full of puppets and shadows and -
Autumn, I am not rooted any more but I'm not free.
And I fall, Autumn, like the rain and like the leaves.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Smiling liars, Laughing tyrants, Suppliers
Of the drug that keeps us spinning
The web of deceit for our precious
Exploiters of production, masters of destruction,
They can always spare a little time,
To turn their noses down at you.
Understanding Uncle Samson,
Receding hairlines never seemed so cruel.
Steady diets, Miracle migrants,
Poised and ready
To deliver the solution to you.
Glorified Ignorance, Celebrated Apathy,
The mixture slowly brought to brew
Industrialized dreams streamed directly,
Born of seduction and designed for consumption
Your ideas no longer belong to you.
The Answer is hidden, at the end
Of a sentence
The link to extinction will surely
Be mentioned
As hope rests
While peace detests
Those souls
Were they well intentioned?
Chemically altered, biology falters,
Murdering the sacred sphere
Who to trust?
The reason we must
Purge the demigods with spears
Beyond the philosophies
Man believes the falsities
The angry mob taught him
To enslave himself with
Fear
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing
i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth
my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand
i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks
galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in
freckles.
like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise
you only crave what you know cannot be.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
The murmur of the sly hours seize
Panting the breath into violent grief,
Love that disdains
Leave anyone in despair.
True link thus detests,
All things in the world disdains
Other than dear ones loving heart.
Love must ever be known for sincere
That sincere love looks upon
Mutual striving towards each other
And the intensity of love looks upon
Being upfront in and out
With no taboos
In sweet surrender.
And the language of love looks upon
The cravings to meet each other in the eyes,
Desperately seeking to tell the love
And stare at each other until communicated
And love be spoken as they meet
And retreat in sweet dreams
Like shining stars.
Love is of the kind related to mind.
Falling in love is such a wonderful feeling;
It shines like a diamond
Inside of the mind.
When heart is broken, love is more cruel
Than diamond particles slowly gaped in
And times merriment forsaken.
If love is not timely sought,
Pain will never cease
And pangs of death imminent.
Love is not a gossamer in dew’d grass
But a magic web of encircled kindness.
Love is of the kind related to mind.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
Gazing into the abyss
Of life's immutable Absurdity;
He feels that emptiness,
Which taunts all humankind,
As it immerses, he is smiling
With a sweet, sickly repose, as
He is certain of uncertainty.
He sees the people all around him,
Pining for a sense of purpose, he's
Freed from their hope, and its duress,
From all their visions of success,
The kind which taunt so many men,
Through sleepless nights, as they obsess.
Now he's laughing to himself, and
Thinking "who must we impress?"
"...and for that matter, why?"
It's this pretension he detests,
"Why this needless apprehension,
Living life at the behest, of
Foolish men, with feeble minds,
Who vainly strive to be 'the best', and
Only to awaken, a few decades down the line,
To find that life was insubstantial,
In those years they left behind?"
"I can only search for meaning,
It can't be prescribed to me, and
Perhaps there isn't one, but then
Why does there need to be?"
The corners of his mouth curl upward, as
Dead leaves fall from a tree, and
Are scattered to the wind,
"Ah, such is my mortality."
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
**An alien fruit
on a low hanging branch,
she swings invitingly
flaunting her color,
that pulled me near
what an adornment
you would be to my
meager fruit basket,
inebriating scent emanating
overpowers my senses.
Your design, I certainly smell
I hear the whisper,
the disclaimer to entice me
to your side, "I don't like him,
the keeper of my orchard,
he pretends he owns it
but does he know the truth?
it's different, fruits aren't
his passion, just a hoarder
he doesn't enjoy the ripe fruits,
and I am a **** fruit,
I see yearnings play hide and seek
in your eyes, aren't you the kind of guy,
I've been waiting to come this way,
take me, soon I'll forget him,
throw away your qualms
like fruit peels to the dumps"
I can't now discern,
what I now think,
no, I am no purist
who detests tartness,
I like the taste of vinegar,
this fruit offers so much,
this is a taste I relish,
but I am not game for this,
like to chase and hunt,
fruits from higher branches,
"wouldn't touch a carcass,
even if it promises much"**
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
I know a man who smokes to die
With cobalt smog on his breath
Breaks his back to live a lie
Sweats himself to faster death
His dreams replaced with picket fences
His life replaced with a wife
Her needs placed in his defenses
Her heart that causes all his strife
He traded it in for minivans
He placed his hope between her arms
In the end his body stands
In his mind his ego breaks
I know a man who smokes to die
Who died too young, he’s in his prime
He gave up the spirit without a fight
And saw the light without a sign
At the end of the road, an end foreseen
At the end of the day, a bed to rest
A white wedding with his best dressed friend
A man smokes away his domestic best
Just like his dad, his cigar is lit
Just like his dad, his party’s done
It arrived today, his bridle and bit
It happened this way: he’s daddy’s son
I know a man who smokes to die
He became something he detests
The pearly life suburbanite
His last cigars were laid to rest
The last of his adventure died
With his smokes now in his chest
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 5:16 PM UTC
the blasphemer and the blushing bride
have no recollection of things like pride
one detests ceremony while the other revels
in vows and prayers and all such spells
one waits for a day of celebration and rejoices
the other rebels against insincere voices
and if the two were to ever meet
or stranger still to share the same seat
all feuds might be forgotten for the sake of the truth
whatever one chooses to believe in one's youth
the importance should be placed on agency
rather than the pomp of unsavory pageantry
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC
Old Man Joe says,
Black and white is the art form,
When images can be captured,
Rendered in color.
To him,
The true art is in the frame,
The composition,
The contrast,
Light versus dark.
He says color makes it an image,
But monochrome makes it a treasure,
Such simplicity,
Relying on such grey,
To convey…
A story?
An emotion?
A statement?
Black and white,
If life were only that simple,
As it is filled with pigments,
A spectrum of ********
To him.
My dear friend detests,
The rendition of color.
Through the glass,
He sees nothing but shades,
Of nothing.
Nov 7, 2023
Nov 7, 2023 at 9:44 PM UTC
Oh boy! A little sister!
A sentient doll! I gotta kiss her!
Gotta make sure she grows up strong
gotta confirm she knows right from wrong
wanna make her just like me
how nice and polite she will be
If it's a lie
I'm not happy
if it's the truth
it makes her sad.
If it's a lie
I'm not happy
if it's the truth
it makes her sad.
Censor censor censor censor censor sister!
Censor censor censor MENTOR sister!
There she goes
walkin' down the street
tall and thin
she can't be beat
Oh me oh my
I never could have guessed
how my very lifestyle
is what she detests!
If it's a lie
I'm not happy
if it's the truth
it makes her sad.
If it's a lie
I'm not happy
if it's the truth
it makes her sad.
Censor censor censor censor censor sister!
Censor censor censor MENTOR sister!
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
Teachers? I'll give you ****** teachers!
There was a lazy old worm
dodged him most of the term
he would let you go home
if you bought him a tome
that stimulated shedding of *****
another thought he was fine
but at lunch he would sup on red wine
of english he thought that I could do nought
and mocked me all of the time
another for boredomes sake
found a rule he thought he could break
smash the lid of a desk on a boy he detests
then tell him the tears he does fake
then there was Mr pereira
how we wished he was fairer
never gave a toss 'cos he was the boss
but there was one even scarier
Red-Neck....
Big and crazy
very lazy
beat the ****
out of me with his mate
for reasons they found hazy
used the dap
I wouldn't cry
so they got
metre rulers
and they did try
the brass bit cut my leg
and ripped my trousers
bullying *****
which was lousier
all I did was come in late
was depressed and sick
and full of hate for school
but a good boy not a fool
scarred me a bit
ha! they were all full of ****
when I passed my exams
they resented it
Best days of my life?
DOWN WITH SKOOL.....
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 12:47 PM UTC
Please be patient,
And most kind,
My trembling hands deceive –
My quivering makes me seem –
Ever so cowardly!
Don’t believe the tremors,
They can’t possibly tell my tale.
But my pen refuses to bleed,
It’s tired of sobbing for me.
And at my door I find,
Emotion most unkind!
It detests me for -
All that I’ve dismissed,
Amassed and stored.
Yet how can I reveal
Words too near, too dear?
Into what fountain would I pour
The love I choose to ignore?
Blank white pages – my beloved.
They’ve become my only escape
From Dire prison cages!
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 11:05 PM UTC
I am young man, conquered a few phrases
And my name is never pronounced by others' lips
I condemned myself for seeking words to rhyme;
For I've been in poetry, years after years of my life:
I may have not those qualities to be a renowned poet,
I will still write even Shakespeare stoop at me upset:
I love composing poems, whatever others may say
For I am prone upon this kind of art, day after day,
Poetry; is where my heart and my my mind solidifies
Tho I may have not a motif for others to be inclined.
He (Shakespeare) is already a diamond; I am not!
Dreams are where it all began, so I will never stop:
There are many prolific writers, better than what I may
Yet my hands will still write even Shakespeare detests me.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 10:23 PM UTC
Please be patient,
And most kind,
My trembling hands deceive –
My quivering makes me seem –
Ever so cowardly!
Don’t believe the tremors,
They can’t possibly tell my tale.
But my pen refuses to bleed,
It’s tired of sobbing for me.
And at my door I find,
Emotion most unkind!
It detests me for -
All that I’ve dismissed,
Amassed and stored.
Yet how can I reveal
Words too near, too dear?
Into what fountain would I pour
The love I choose to ignore?
Blank white pages – my beloved.
They’ve become my only escape
From Dire prison cages!
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 10:53 PM UTC
Everyone tells you it's simple
to get over a spill of depression.
That's what they think it is.
A
Spill,
but it's more than that.
A spill ruins what's around it,
the liquid often stains the
surface where the initial spill
happened, but emotions
such as depression can not
simply be summed up into
such a simple solution.
They tell you it can.
They tell you it'll get better.
They offer up the reprieve of a
swift conversation to make 'you'
feel better, but it's not entirely
the truth.
Such a conversation is offered up
at your expense.
They want to not feel neglectful.
A feeling of that magnitude would
weigh too heavily on their
conscious.
So, they tell you to get better.
They tell you another day
is a day to turn around, to smile,
to he thankful, but it's not that simple is it?
Should it be?
They tell me it should be,
but how can I believe them
when my body rejects such a sentiment.
My mind detests those words
because such a powerful mechanism
knows the truth.
It isn't a spill.
My body harbors depression,
letting it leak into my mind,
my thoughts, my actions, and
my knowledge.
It shatters away at the tethers
of happiness I have,
leaving them practically
bare and decrepit by the time
the process of joyful
malnutrition departs from
my system.
The system that they say
will get better.
They offer advice,
but no solution.
They act is if they know,
but have no experience.
Spills.
Can joy be considered a spill?
Can sorrow be considered a spill?
Can hate be considered a spill?
Spills are temporary.
They are overflowing,
lapping away at the sides of
the fixture holding it in.
Spills can be taken care of,
they can be forgotten, but
depression can not, and yet,
they treat it as if it's a simple
emotion, but it's far more complex.
It
Is
Not
A
Spill.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
Just listen around and you’ll hear the sound,
Of human suffering.
As the shadows start closing in,
The bird lies as he sings.
Broken pens and ugly ends,
And one who’s too far away.
Try to show the brightside,
But ignore the very things you say.
Horrors are real. Tell me what you feel.
Whisper what you fear.
Use those that care. Release the scare.
Cry another black tear.
Wipe it from your face. Do you want some space?
Drain disease from your skin.
One detests the father,
While another misses him.
Crooked spines and twisted minds,
And miles of open sea.
Stress and fear and anger,
Stop us from being who we want to be.
Being alone, I have not grown,
From what wounded me in the past.
The others have changed their landscape,
But pain can adapt fast.
Horrors are real. Tell me what you feel.
Whisper what you fear.
Use those that care. Release the scare.
Cry another black tear.
But we must push on.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 12:35 AM UTC
Give me light
that the poppy receives
Give me Rain
to quench my thirst
As I hunger and thirst
for you
I sit here and ask when you’ll return
Slowly,
My skin cracks and my heart aches
As my bones protrude,
I’ve begun to wither into a corpse
of ruin and sallow skin
I want you;
Your rays, Your light.
Burn me until my skin detests —
Screaming
for all you give
Give me all
I hope to receive
May 4, 2021
May 4, 2021 at 4:14 AM UTC