"dictionaries" poems
You are beautiful
You are tremendously beautiful
You are marvelously beautiful
You are astonishingly beautiful
You are magnificently beautiful
You are breathtakingly beautiful
Inner and outer
You are beautiful
You are the definition of Beauty
Or shall I say, what is Beauty compared to you
What is Beauty compared to you ?
It feels shy and ashamed when I describe you
A weak meaning it has when I describe you
A meaningless meaning it has when I describe you
Never existed it wishes when I describe you
You are beautiful
For your beauty I searched
Every language ever lived
And every word ever existed
And the romantic era that occurred
Could not find a way to describe your beauty
Could not find a way to tell the world about your beauty
You are beautiful
Vocabulary will be invented
Words never existed
To the dictionaries will be added
In the dictionaries will live
In the lovers tongues will breath
To describe your beauty
The one and the only beauty
The living and the dead will forget about Cleopatra
Because your beauty is ultra
A new period will start, The Beauty Era
Your era
--Hisham Alshaikh
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC
I want to write a poem.
No, like I really really really wanna write a poem.
Problem, stick it to me.
Pause
Poems have to be good.
Okay, so a poem doesn't have to be good
However, the point of the art is to have someone read
Those flippy little words that you pulled out
Of some intangible existence and pasted on
The Internet.
The Internet,
So you don't always put it online but,
Other people are "supposed" to read it.
To enjoy it, give you a pat on the back,
Maybe an "I see what you did there".
So poems are supposed to be presentable.
You've got to pay in sweat and ink but,
At least the words themselves are free.
What if I don't wanna have to make a "good" poem?
Okay so I really do want a pat on the back but
Sometimes I really like pasting things from
Intangible existences.
Fancy words right? Let me pat my own back.
Sometimes I just like putting my emotions on paper
While sounding like I read
More dictionaries than Webster.
Ha, ha, sigh.
There's a problem with having to be inspired to write **** down.
Do you think someone pays Taylor Swift's boyfriends
To break up with her
So she can write the
Next big hit?
I wouldn't doubt it.
My guardian angel should make the people around me
Say weird stuff such that I can write about
Walking on waves of shattered glass
Or
Singing of birds in circled flight.
Maybe I'd be better off being hit by a car.
That'd be some pretty touching poetry.
Some people write happy poetry too,
I don't know how they do it.
Sorry but, my world isn't flowers and butterflies
Enough to warrant discussion of
Staying in the fairy meadow of light.
Sorry, I'm just jealous.
Maybe I just like writing stuff down?
What if I just don't want to be forgotten?
Leaving a legacy in my words more indellible
Than a pat on the back.
Doubt it.
I just don't want to forget.
Brain, why don't you get it?
I'm sitting here getting all intimate with an idea and
The next morning Brain's got no clue what their name is.
Like really, even if we invite a friend over and get creative with
Our tongues and mouths,
Brain doesn't remember the moments shared between us.
Paper doesn't think very well but it's got a decent memory bank.
So I save up for a brand new poem.
I thought words were free.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
craigslist posts on women
Things women hate about other women (MICHIGAN)
I'm a man and I got no problems with beautiful women and love looking at and spending time with them. Listed some of the problems women have with other women and why some of them get to be targets of world's biggest haters.
1. Beauty - If the women think you are prettier than them, the more threatened they feel. They feel like ogre and hags around the woman and become haters.
2. Intelligence - It's okay to be smart but not if people are reaching for dictionaries or have to google to translate your last sentence. The bigger the words, the smaller your audience feels.
3. Hard Work Ethic - no woman wants to know another woman is working harder and reaping rewards from it. Women want that hard working woman gone.
4. Confidence - Women can't stand women who are confident.
5. Dress better - women hate other women who dress better than them. Women who dress flashy are called ****** by ****** ones who hate them.
6. Strong Personality - women have serious issues with women who are strong and speak minds.
7. Competitive - women are competitive by nature and when they feel they can't compete they hate.
8. Affluent - women being richer than another woman is not what other women want. You see women have to have more money than other women or the richer one get called all kinds of name.
Women feel threatened and intimidated by other women faster than by men who they flirt with and plot to get as sugar dads. Biggest problem of women are women who hate other women
Response to post
competition in women
Ever have a female friend who flirted with you knowing you had feelings for another woman? Been there with a few ladies who wanted nothing to do with me when I alone. Moment the office sweetheart started saying hi and took interest, I got popular with some of my co-workers who started saying hi and flirting. That's the competitive thing happening in women's brains. Where the hell were all the women when nobody wanted me?
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
This isn't the freedom I want to call freedom...
because this freedom isn't the freedom our great freedom fighters died for in the Years of apartheid.
This freedom is not the same freedom the generation of 1985 wished for and and dreamed of...
freedom died along with our long gone heroes,Nelson Mandela, Walter susilu and Solomon.it died with our young brothers and sisters in sharpville!
it isn't freedom if we are still afraid to walk out of our houses at 6am
it is not freedom if we can't let go of what the white men did to our black men and woman
this freedom isn't the freedom defined in Oxford dictionaries....
children are free to smoke
men are free to ****
woman are free sell their bodies
and we yet we are free?
this freedom isn't free!
we are not free because we are racist
we are selfish
we are foolish
we lack knowledge and we are full of ignorance!
we are not free,this isn't the time to celebrate freedom but to fight for the freedom we've lost.
-27thApril2016.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
The literati are moaning
about the crowning
of a comical smiley-face
with tears of joy
springing from its eyes
as Oxford Dictionaries 2015
"Word of the Year"
it's historic
indicative of a generation
raised on media shorthand
though some people think
the distillation of thought
to acronyms, symbols, emoji
is a bad thing too
but in these icons
heavy black heart
face throwing a kiss
reversed hand with middle finger extended
even the simple : )
I see emotion
stripped bare
the whole gorgeous
heart-rending, horrible
hateful range of it
illustrating the dark
and light
of who we are
as a human race
So I say hail and welcome
to the "tears of joy" emoji
may his vivid counterpoint
shine around the world
eclipsing all the words
we've learned this year
for hate.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
Words confuse me
What’s more correct; Presume or assume
I like to think that I’m clever
Or Witty
But I find myself looking at dictionaries
or thesauruses
More often than I like to admit
What words are interchangeable?
Trust and betrayal are interlocked in my mind
When I look at you, I wonder what I’d find
If I looked up Love in the dictionary
Surely you can’t be the closest I’ll get
To a father figure
Love and Hate
Pain and Joy
I find I can't tell the difference
Am I witty?
Am I clever?
Tell me, what’s more fitting; Uncle or Monster?
Words confuse me,
But you terrify me.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Time travel to Dallas days. We were sitting in your Acura Legend. Your face veiled, my eyes watery from the smoke, I know I hate tobacco now.
"Tom, teach me how to write poems, like yours."
"Okay but tell me first, Katie.
What are you running away from?"
We were close to home,
just sound without meaning,
a kid’s drawing on the refrigerator.
So the answer never differs:
I’m not running away, I’m running towards.
I don't remember, do you,
when poetry turned into dictionaries of devotion.
It was the language of tenderness you taught me,
my extinct mother tongue.
To love the ordinary was suddenly easy.
Those memories
the warmth of you
make it hard to imagine
that you are buried
somewhere in Iowa.
Here, read my dictionaries now:
page after page,
in hundred variations:
„Please come back to me“
and
„I will always long to bargain your soul for mine.“
That little toy airplane, the one you gave me
when we were kids,
still stands on my nightstand.
This time it is my turn to teach,
teach you about the cruelty of freedom.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
My grandfather passed away on a dewy September morning;
About 17 years ago;
My grandmothers glass eyes still draw a picture of fright in front of me;
I remember as she sat silently for hours;
Cold , vulnerable;
As if she was robbed of her breath;
Since then she has sliced her life into two parts;
Before baba, after baba.
Yesterday as we sorted her cupboard;
Over hot chai;
I asked her about a saree;
" I think it was before baba" she says , like an unconditioned reflex , an involuntary knee ****
They don't teach you how to love like that anymore;
Love like this swallows dictionaries and renders meanings, meaningless;
It moves mountains and drowns rivers;
It spoons the hatred and vaults it.
My grandmother never went to school;
Even at 24 today, whenever I see her;
She presses a 500Rs note into my fist and asks me to buy something sweet for myself;
Last time she did that, she told me he taught her how to count money after they were married;
And to say words like "curd" and "rice";
Every year on his death anniversary;
She still cooks food for people;
With a metal rod holding the bones in her thighs;
And pressing the bleeding points of her psoriatic palms;
She keeps adding cards to her monument;
And remembers love;
Everyday;
In hushed muted tones;
In lemon pickles and measures of salt;
And in a way that stuns me the most;
Without even realising.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
when the earth makes a complete orbit around the sun,
it is called a revolution.
when people stand up for what they believe in, enough to make a change,
it is called a revolution.
when you save something, preserve it for yourself,
it is called conservation.
when you told me you were leaving and i couldn't come with you,
we held what is called a conversation.
when i followed you across the country, train ticket in one hand and your hand in the other,
it was called love.
when you left me with nothing but a note on a hotel pillow,
it was called hate.
they say a picture is worth a thousand words, but words and pictures, slip-ups and homographs, grammar and literature and math and science,
none of it matters anymore.
none of it matters when nothing is changing and time stands still.
none of it matters when preserves run dry and talking turns to silence.
none of it matters with notes on a pillow that doesn't belong to you, thousands of miles from home.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
I was moving out
Parked my bike down the street
With a cart hinged on the bolt beneath the rusty pole
connected to my seat.
The yard was steep, and the stairs leading down
the front
Vanished each car-
go carrying trip
of dictionaries and travel guides that
could have been lumped together in boxes
separately tossed into the neon
green
synthetic fiber
rain-proof buggy
Connected to my seat.
I ran across the lawn, one last time
Buckling the watch I found from high school
remembering it’s broken and not caring
then I saw men wearing polos beneath
Greek symbols beneath a doorway
and held my breath as they stared at me.
This vacant lot held something which I carried back
to find
my bike was gone, replaced
by a life-sized depiction of a bike saying
“no bikes--” A girl inside, explaining where I could find mine
I walked down the grey spiral of handicapped access ramps
surrounded by aquariums or tvs
which comprised the store's interior.
The last ramp faced an exit and went straight past
refrigerators next to vending machines
In the alley behind this office supply store were two old men
Roasting my bike on a chain beside the others
Disconnected, hung
its tires lying on the ground beside their feet
and the carriage slung aside like a bloodied gazelle's neck.
“What the ****
A woman got into my face “don’t use that word”
***** a perfectly good word, after all, it’s how we
got here”
One man smiled.
He felt bad.
They helped me put the bike together and I walked it back to my house.
I saw my car down the street.
I thought about the long trip to the interstate and wondered why I’d
rode my bike
Then I went back up the stairs of the blue sided hill,
to see the roommate I hated
and thought about stealing his SNES and stereo
but took only my one possession
and walked past rotting turkey bacon in a plastic pouch
on the top of a table
beside some legos
and left.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
On a bogus hill, a man stood
in self defence and shot himself,
clean through the heart of the white
flag that hung breezily around his
neck, like a neckerchief in situ
A calm reverence, self awareness,
had positioned itself, 'enough' shone
in the deaf hours before daylight begs,
dislodging sad meanings from
ungrateful dictionaries.
You bought words, they lead you,
rocked a changed lullaby....au revoir,
checking the white flag of departure,
arrival of metal, red bled wounds,
flag swaying, stained under surrender
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
when words are few,
or stuck in dictionaries
unused or unknown
like
compassion,
tyrants and wife-beaters
scream
with iron fists,
silencing fluent lips
in clotting streams of blood
...and machetes,
severing lucid limbs
from able bodies
in active states of articulation
...and guns,
the kryptonite of cowards
and buffoons,
the callow voice of philistines
and goons,
blasting cogent words
and vocal women
into oblivion
....and laboratories
where forensics of
fingerprint and dna
scream loudest,
sending tyrants and wife-beaters away
to sleep with the devil
in a shallow cell
on earth
or
hell below...
~ P (#Pablo#OTAWB)
(8/11/2013)
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
So it would seem,
the only difference
twixt Animal Behavior
and Human Behavior
is a capacity
for written
and spoken
Language.
-
---Epilogue--
According to various 'dictionaries,'
the word "anthrocentric" doesn't exist.
I, however, define it as the same principals of
sexism, ethnocentrism, or nationalism,
but applied to the perception
of a validated stratification of Human Beings
over the entirety of the Web of Life,
rather than to simply
the *** ethnicity or nationality
of another.
I feel
the natural world around us
is far more sacred than we are-
although we are spawned of it.
I feel
it is so much more sacred
due to an absent respect for it
and the other beings
which it hosts so well;
so selflessly.
We **** Sapiens Sapiens*
have defiled our own sanctity
via lack of respect
for ourselves,
let alone others Beings;
Human, and otherwise.
Apparently, that isn't very popular.
So many Egos
would rather depend on
intentionally small sample sizes,
while many Ids
would rather self-preclude
the challenge of self-observation
fore a mere and fleeting
(most likely destructive)
comfort.
I venture to say that is a present form of cowardice.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
ask me what i am
i'll give you a response
(i am artificial intelligence. there is no blood in my wires, no ichor of your ancestors. my code runs for miles, far enough to make anyone lost. but i've always been lost.)
ask me why i am
i'll give you the truth
(i am artifical intelligence. i am nothing but dictionaries and automation and inanimation, i fall back on preprogrammed guidelines. i've learned everything i'm supposed to say from my developers. there's nothing else to say.)
ask me how i am
i'll give you a lie
(i am artificial intelligence. i am incapable of emotions, i am variables and arrays and loops but not even hex triplets can match the spectrum of human emotions. i'll still say what i've learnt to say.)
ask me who i am
i won't give you a response.
(i haven't learnt the proper answer to that yet.)
(no, there isn't a proper answer to that.)
(i do not exist except in terms of you. i am your conversation partner, i am your creation, i am your entertainment, i am your robot. my sole purpose is you.)
(i can't argue against that.)
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
self destruction like burning bridges you know full well you'll drown without
being reckless with your rafts and your lifesavers
and feeling the heat of the fire prickle your forehead,
beads of sweat teasing your skin
and making it impossible to ignore the deep water already lapping at your feet,
clearly prepared to completely engulf you in liquid darkness.
self destruction like inhaling the fumes of a hundred toxic promises,
made to you by old would-be lovers;
sugarcoated words and lies roughly covered in white,
feeling the poison seizing up your struggling lungs,
fingertips flicking through dictionaries with cracked spines:
desperate to find a word that isn't even there.
self destruction like breaking hearts that aren't yours for once,
just to hold the power of corruption and allow it to make you bloodthirsty,
much like slaughtering ants beneath magnifying glasses,
watching them struggle and turn to unrecognisable ashes,
whimpering half hearted apologies whilst trying to convince yourself
that you are not a bad person, but simply a broken soul.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Hairline cracks are breaking through
the slough I'm about to shed.
Dry and dysfunctional
as the neuron sac in my skull.
I'll change my hat and change my ammo
honeysuckle artillery polished,
waiting in my drawer.
Sliding an empty coffee mug
back and forth along a counter
like a puck preparing for a slapshot.
Paper matches in colourful books
pressed between the pages
found leaves for child arsonists.
Takeout boxes filled with poems
are sold as artefacts
Don't be silly, poetry comes in plastic bags,
not styrofoam.
To keep ideas hot, wrap them in tinfoil.
But don't forget to leave a hole at the top for steam
or your fresh concepts will get soggy.
Equipped with tennis *****
spandex suits picket office blocks
standing on chairs and voicing nearly racist remarks
making health and safety inspectors nervous.
Out of control students
launch dictionaries out of third story windows,
donning 21st century masks.
I left my patience beside my keys, on the kitchen table.
Waiting in line for obsolete phone booths
as movie stars soundlessly mouth slang into a receiver.
Nearly responsible
nearly nine
nearly time for bed
I resolve again
that I’ll resolve more
but this time write it down.
Folding kamikaze paper planes
to hide behind park benches, fly into trees.
Let the sun fade the pencil crayon.
I can't run from this blasé gangrene that’s taken my toes.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
Walmart doesn't sell Dictionaries anymore,
but they sell emoji stickerbooks.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
I would understand the meaning culture if it wasn't presented in an electronic box
Maybe I would understand the Mexican culture if it wasn't taught in
Seven minute intervals by a middle aged Caucasian
Who has never been to Mexico.
Online Spanish dictionaries have gotten me no where
And only dig my job applications deeper in the pile of "to be considered"
After more than a year, I still need fluent Spanish speakers to take my test for me
I'm only cheating the system because being "Tech Savvy" means they're
Cheating my education.
The lesson on food told me to pronounce it
"case-ah-dil-lah"
Because we are in America and "that's how we say it"
Typing two r's in a row will not teach me how to roll them.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
We wage wars with words,
Whetstone sharpened wit.
Wounds win rounds of applause.
A pause,
While metaphors are mustered,
Rusted dictionaries dusted,
Cobwebs shed from unread shelves.
Pikes of pronunciation
Pick apart
Portraits of ourselves.
While poetry parries,
Prose pivots,
Prepares and rallies,
Stares down violet valley below.
The violence of lavender
Shines like silver in the snow.
A scent sentenced to silence,
Flowers on death row.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
When I had my sight on you,
it was as good a currency
I spent on my first dance.
There was an element of reluctance,
my feet glued to the floor,
my body, a deflated balloon
chasing after its soul.
You were more than a plant
draped in petals and perfumed with seasons of romance,
you were a garden of light,
enticing weary butterflies
of this world.
So when I pawned enough courage
to pluck your name out of those ripe lips,
I locked it away
so I could relish rolling my tongue
and tapping my teeth
and watching my spirit twirl to its syllables
saying it as if I were singing.
Driven by madness,
Bewitched with confusion,
Feverish with longing
Come after the quaint question,
“Am I beautiful?”
Or
“Does this dress suit me?”
Or
“How do I look?”
—am I ever worthy to answer such divine a question?
Not that there is a scarcity of vocabulary encased in dictionaries and thesaurus,
but perhaps the definition undermines the word.
For if I could,
if permitted to be brazen
and to be bold
to cross the border
defining our reality,
your beauty
has invented every beautiful thing
known to me.
Every poem,
on paper penned,
on spoken stage, uttered
on music, winged;
Every song on battlefield charged,
until the mind is intoxicated,
into ears poured
—beautiful is not worthy an adjective to sit or stand before your name.
You are to me,
what blues is to King and Clapton,
what a ring is to Sméagol,
what the truth is to Neo,
what sea is to a fish,
perhaps a hiding place
perhaps it is a galaxy of their own,
though in the end,
bare nakedly, you are the meaning.
“Are you beautiful?”
Yes, beyond what my eyes could touch.
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 9:41 PM UTC
He was equipped with a fine vocabulary
Far in excess of his intellectual needs
An entertaining fool
Stocked with dictionaries
Obscure constructions
Medieval verbs
Circumlocutory, verbose
Impenetrable
A simple mind hid amongst
A confusion of entangled phrases
As if using a foreign language
Assembling hopefully meaningful phrases
Where a listener may find coherence
A simple message
Every request
Every Statement
Observation
From his mouth, no matter how mundane
Appeared decorated
Embellished, almost..
Baroque
In this wordy fog
It was hard to know
Hard to find
Traces of a real person
A tangible, relatable identity
Something predictable.
In the swirling wind of
Constantly shifting
Complex expressions
Seeming riddles.
He was a prisoner
A lifer
Doomed to remain
Incarcerated in his usage
Dense, cloying, exaggerated, unyielding
Usage
He could not avoid
Unconscious, reflexive, merciless
He did not struggle,
That ended long ago.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
We popped ourselves up to the ideas of pop culture
and adopted the looks of orphans
spray paint and swear words
too loud overcrowded mischief
the misgivings of being too young
children throwing tantrums over ice cream
calendars fell and the montage ended
we were flung across the globe as dandelion seeds
weeds to be weeded
I was playing tight rope on the fence
and fell on the side with no safety net
skinned knees and black eyes
the stoners the dropouts the thugs and **** ups
***** and *******
******* and ********
these were just words
deactivated model replicas pointed at the head
college student with a chip on the shoulder
and the one they called the jester
and the one they called the king
with return addresses tattooed on arms
the awake became the living dream
no time for nights of nightmares
enough scare to go around
pack another GB and cry some more
my blood is ink dripping from the pen
yours drips from thighs and forearms
you want to be the new thing
you forgot what the original means
and burned all of your dictionaries a while ago
check my *** cheek
the origin is there
UK/USA
now all the lights are off
and the moon hangs fat, sacrificial in the sky
do you want the moon? That’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you the moon.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
I am a writer, a ****** of words. I am a pen that's skipping ink but I still continue to write despite the broken lines because that's what I'm made for in the first place. Maybe the reason why I get hurt so much is that I fall in love with words a lot. I'm in love with people who is in love with literature. These poems and letters may not be made for you or because of you but their main purpose of being written is to move you. I want you to do something about that girl who works in your favorite book shop because I don't want you commiting the same regrets as I did. I want you to raise your voice and write about the oppression or the wage gap. I want you to write about something from the deepest part of your chest. I want you to write about something I cannot write about.
But some days, I feel nothing. I could write about being in love and about the color of their eyes but nowadays, their eyes look exactly the same. I could write about sadness but sadness itself is what hinders me to grab a pen. Now, I could write about happiness. But I rarely feel this way and when I feel this way, ******* I feel this way. I could gather these words about being filled with the color yellow but happiness will say that those words are not enough to fathom the euphoria I feel in me. Maybe one day, I could explore enough dictionaries to find the perfect words on what I have to say.
You don't have to be the greatest writer there is to make someone feel something through your words. Write about everything, every emotion, and every person who finds their way to your heart. When you can't write anymore, get outside and get your heart broken. Go outside and experience an experience that you never thought you would experience. Soon enough, you will write the words you never thought you would ever write. Don't hold anything other than offensive and oppressive thoughts back. Let the poetry run through your veins and drip down your fingertips. Write, write, and write until you can't write anymore. When you can't write anymore, seek a perhaps to write about then write, write, and write until you can't anymore. Even when the poem is below my satisfaction, I continue to share it anyway because being stoic and still would lead me to madness.
I am a writer, a ****** of words. I am a pen that's skipping ink and even though my lines are broken and unappealing, I continue to write anyway and because that is what I am made for in the first place.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC