"disapproving" poems
Heavy-chested, I try to release emotions,
The moon shakes its head in dismay,
Seasons unwinding, heartache in slow-motion,
And in weather hides words I can't say.
In the thick sincere compliments
Concerns flail, attempt to get out,
Bang on barriers, will not budge,
'Life consumed, hopeless doubt.
Mind enveloped in fear,
Shackled by trusting nature,
Wings clipped, self-made prisoner,
I wonder if you sense restraints stir.
Certain only one choice allowed,
A crowd of disapproving eyes stare,
Maybe stars can take me far from this place,
They twinkle, dreams in night air.
Want to shine with a similar light,
Ugly areas stand in protest,
Hold back the glow, I seem dimmer,
Searching for a spot to rest.
Weakness planted in crevices,
Rosebushes bearing thorns blooming,
Learning to love myself even when no one else does,
I'm hard to be with, I am only human.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
Tentpole, stature tall and strong and
Firmly placed between the thin sheets
Members of the boy scouts, boy clan
Flames extinguished, his body heats
At dawn it rises, makes me wake
******* for the fire he gathers
Morning wood, embers of the stakes
Soon home; disapproving Fathers
Morning **** calls, but we're busy
Pack our bags, get all the work done
Juice of life makes me quite dizzy
Mem'ries of our weekend of fun
I'll be dish and spoon to your spoon
Spend nights together o'er the moon
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
I’m a woman with some attitude--
not one who will dispense a platitude.
Chicken soup won’t give you soul;
from me, it’ll get you an eye roll.
You try to mask your disapproving looks
with sanctimonious advice from large print books:
“Embrace the moment” “Be grateful” and “Breathe”
“Pray” “See only the good” “Turn the other cheek”
“Accept others’ flaws” “Don’t criticize”--
I have some advice that’s a bit more wise:
“Don’t put up with ******** “Embrace your outrage."
While you were living in the “present,” history turned the page.
God is Dead, you’ve got to take charge;
you’ve been scammed by crooks in suits, who live large.
People aren’t so good; sometimes they’re ****
They’ve pulled the rug out from under where you sit.
Don’t accept others’ flaws; tell them to go to hell.
If you’re really mad, don’t breathe, just yell.
Anger is good, it’s there for a reason.
You’re just a phony, with your people pleasin’.
Get off your **** and take some action--
stick it to the jerks, join the radical faction.
Accommodating ******** just brings on more--
just wait, and you’ll see what’s next in store.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 10:44 PM UTC
you are there in my subconscious
every time that I close my eyes
your head upon my shoulder
underneath a starlit sky
you are there in my conversations
underneath the words I say
the shape of your disposition
towards the topic of the day
you are there when I’m dishonest
your eyes just above the lie
with a cool discerning look
and a disapproving sigh
you are there in my emotions
every smile and every tear
your unexpected absence
at the base of every fear
obsession is an ugly word
infatuation is to sweet
you are there inside my soul
where love and longing meet
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
Spiders.
Snakes.
Late nights, due to the fact that once I saw a possum in our garage when it was dark out.
Good looking people not thinking I'm good looking.
Holding children. I might drop them.
My brothers growing up to be just like me.
Shark attacks.
Jumping off high places.
Headphones that go too deep into my ears.
Going the opposite direction of so many cars. I'm the only one going my way. They're probably headed the right way. They're probably having more fun.
Realizing that, after being on the road for a while, my high beams have been on the whole time. Sorry.
Cockroaches.
Family reunions where I'm not sure if that really attractive girl is my family or someone's friend.
Climbing up the stairs of the Bombay ride at Wet N' Wild because there just slabs of stone I can see under. I could slip and fall right through.
Enjoying bad bands.
Letting my girlfriend look into my eyes.
Talking on the phone.
Growing up.
Refusing to grow up.
Reading this over if I ever finish it and realizing that I am something less than a regular human being. Probably an animal of some kind.
Frogs.
Big animals.
Waking up one day as the same person I always have been.
Standing still.
My parents.
Not spending the rest of my life with the girl I swore I would.
Texting people too often.
My parents dying.
Whales.
My teeth being this awful the rest of my life.
Braces.
Making people think they offended me. People never offend me.
Writing anything that's ever as good as Ernest Hemingway. How dare I think that I ever could.
Running too hard. My heart might burst.
Being unreasonable. Am I unreasonable?
Sticking my finger inside an air conditioning vent in a car. I don't know if there's a fan in there. I don't know if it'll take my finger off.
Getting people's hopes up.
Letting people down.
Fish.
Bees.
Being a teacher.
My laugh.
Wearing bad clothes.
Holding her hand too hard. I might cut off circulation. She might get mad.
My brother disapproving of what I do.
Heaven because it sounds awful doing the same thing for the rest of forever.
Finding out I've been gay this whole time.
Cracking my fingers.
Being a parent.
Whales.
Final exams.
Paranormal Activity 4.
Singing on cue.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Eating insects.
Whales.
Silence.
The open ocean.
Whales.
Whales.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
All she wanted was a taste of perfection,
Yet all she found was chaos, sweet beautiful chaos.
It was always in her mind and she hid it with her smile,
But those green eyes can never lie.
A sensitive soul with a harsh exterior, she pushed hard everyday.
She pushed herself and others noticed,
But it's never enough in those green eyes.
She seeks approval from all the others but hesitantly disagrees.
For those green eyes look through her, disapproving.
Intuition and intelligence storm over her hearts desires,
A burning beautiful chaos in her mind.
A placid shell always hiding
The hurricane brewing in those green eyes.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
one day my teacher asked me
why I always wrote in lowercase letters
her glasses perched on the top of her beak
she squawked,
"you were not taught that in school, young lady.
it is not proper, young lady."
and I gripped my pen tighter
or maybe a little looser
it's hard to tell lately.
but I looked in to her black beady eyes
and disapproving frowny face
and whispered "see how I am whispering
do you see how you are leaning closer
like I have a secret
more intimate, correct?
that is my writing:
an intimate secret.
for you"
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Take me back to a different hotel every night and living out of a suitcase. Getting comfortable in our naked bodies around each other; comparing breast size and stretch marks—examining ourselves like the men who’ve carelessly fondled us before for our likes and dislikes. Sharing a bottle of lukewarm tequila in the world’s smallest bathtub and then I sing you to sleep. Highway cars buzzing past and there’s only one road to get lost on, but we manage it every single time. Your car becomes a dressing room at gas stations where people stare with disapproving glares and worry for the safety of their wallets; because we don’t belong here but we laugh—still drunk from the early morning hours and just trying to find the next check-in spot for the night. There never is a real destination but home always seems too close and we both hate that part. It doesn’t feel right when it ends or when I have to crawl back into my own bed without a time frame to be out by in the morning—before the housekeeping maid comes banging on our door,
yet again.
Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 1:06 AM UTC
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
one of these days im gonna fly.
fly away from this small town with jocks who take life for granted.
fly away from the people who hurt me.
fly away from judgement.
fly away from disapproving stares at the grocery store.
fly away from my parents arguing.
fly away from my brother's drugs.
fly away from my too busy schedule.
fly away from stress, from obsession, from therapy.
fly away from all that is wrong-with me, with my family, with the world.
oh yes; one of these days you will watch this "tortured soul" fly.
and when im gliding you, i wont be flying.
ill be soaring. and all you will do is gaze, open-mouthed and amazed at the simplicity beneath my wings
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
*I see, your words are quite clear.
You speak the truth, and I shouldn't disagree.
I'm oblivious to these facts of yours, they're also proven too.
I can understand it's completely unbiased, and definitely not make believe.*
"But...." The word of choice, for all the biased, make believe, oblivious, disapproving, contradicted, crystal clear, pain in the **** perfectionist know it all.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
They say that offspring resembles the breeders
both physically and mentally
but when I speak their faces darken
and when they speak I get upset.
I resemble them physically
but you can not tell that I am their daughter
if you look at us mentally.
Every conversation is a battle.
My father is the textbook conservative.
Pro-life and pro-guns
Anti-gay and microagressive.
How am I his daughter?
My mother is a follower.
A doe to her deer.
A foe in my fears.
How am I her daughter?
Standing 5 foot 8 in a pair of slacks
instead of a dress there's me.
The feminist.
The human rights activist.
My father calls me a communist.
My mother thinks I'm crazy.
I'm not a communist but a libertarian.
Funny how that's confused.
I march on in my combat boots.
My mother disapproving.
My father asking me if I just came back
from a Pearl Jam concert.
I march on with my feminist ways.
Spreading the word of equality as often as I can.
Telling the micro-aggressors to stop.
Questioning the Christians and the anti-gays.
I march on with my sense of style.
I don't care if I don't look feminine today.
I don't feel feminine today.
My mother's shaming me in the distance.
I march on with my tattoos and choppy hair.
My mother crying and my father angry.
They are anti-tattoo and anti-individualistic.
I don't deserve their shame.
I march on with who I am.
Because although I am their offspring
they can not change who I am.
No matter how hard they try.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
i'm in love with a boy
but i change my pronouns to say that
i love her
because of the ones who cannot do so.
because of the lovers who have to hide.
because of the injustice people have done to people.
we are all equal in birth, but live in an unequal society.
i am simply another girl who loves a boy.
no questions asked.
no awkward glances, no stiff hands to shake.
no glares, no whispers.
because i'm privileged enough
to be on the side of love that someone deemed
acceptable.
and because i don't agree with having to pick and choose who you get to love
based on their possession of particular parts.
you love someone for their energy, their personality.
the way they hold you in the night.
the trust you share, the bonds you make.
you love them because you are you and they are they.
she loves her.
he loves him.
she loves him.
he loves her.
or her. or him.
the pronouns
should not
seem odd
to us.
but our society majorly consists of
gritted teeth and
disapproving eyes.
and because of this,
because i love someone
of the opposite gender,
and because i do not
suffer from any hate,
i will quietly fight
the cookie-cutter
for you
with pronouns
and poems.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
Faced with disapproving faces
Glazed gazes dazed hazing my faces
Fascinated by my inappropriate places
Amassed masses ****** and passed by me
Watching the voices; noises, you'll avoid
Our inside turmoil recoil and reclaim
Property that wasn't properly yours...
to claim
Sprinkle a double dandy shot of disdain
Hand and hang myself in your vision.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
Well it's funny how quickly things change
what seems certain goes fast out of range
and it's hard not to wonder just who was to blame
as if that makes a difference at all
Things get broken, that we all know
you can cry or think, 'Where should I go?'
There is always someone with a light that will show
and a heart that could cushion your fall
Here comes the cavalry, the army of friends
to judge and advise you on justified ends
to hell with the horses, to hell with the men
you're putting yourself back together again
Well there's love and there's lust and there's ***
one thing one day is not that the next
when we're not messing up well we're trying our best
it's a wonder we've lasted so long
You can fret over games that were played
and regret the mistakes that were made
but this crap from the past will just stand in your way
you've a life to be lived, right or wrong
And here comes the cavalry, the army of friends
to judge and advise you on justified ends
to hell with the horses, to hell with the men
you're putting yourself back together again
So things may be awkward here and there, now,
disapproving glances, icy stares, now
got to wonder why you'd even care, now
life is waiting
Here comes the cavalry, the army of friends
to judge and advise you on justified ends
to hell with the horses, to hell with the men
you're putting yourself back together again.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
I think you're gone
but there is inside me
that voice
disapproving, judging
I had celebrated my freedom
with a Budweiser
and some tears
not realising like
Steven King's
Lawnmower Man
you had been released
into my every nerve ending
my very being
part of my matrix
in life you had the strength
of an ark angel
and as I stumble
over these words
I am afraid retribution
is at hand
I am still scared of secrets
to let too much show
you once asked if I still
write poetry after dissing it
well I'd hardly call it that
this is my fear factory
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 4:36 PM UTC
see no evil.
turn your blind eye
away from the ****** assault victim.
hear no evil.
do not listen to mother earth cry.
speak no evil.
when you justify
polluting the planet
with your GDP,
and give racism power
with your silent complicity.
hear no evil.
turn up your distractions
to quiet the disapproving shouts
of the whole world.
see no evil.
believe the images of brown skin children
locked in cages
for profit
are fake news.
you don’t heed their suffering.
speak no evil.
because in america,
other languages shan’t be heard.
you’re the monkey,
and monkeys don’t ask questions.
be not evil
?
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
Once, long ago
I gazed upon
the world with
conformity’s eyes
and found it absurd
And I cursed existence
and my fellow man
I built a wall to defend
the tattered remnants
of the sanity I perceived
I still possessed
I built a wall that quickly
became a desolate prison
standing cold in the face
of forgiveness and love
I ignored beauty’s gentle bliss
I insulted love in the name
of an antiquated morality
Oh spirits
Oh demons
Oh harbingers
of what lies
beyond
perception
It was to you
that I entrusted
my salvation
It was to you that
I prayed in expectation
of deliverance
I begged for naught
but a cessation of being
to relieve the nightmare
of existence
In desperation
I grasped the reins
of intolerance
I drew the sword
of superficial righteousness
carving a swath of condemnation
through the ranks of my brothers
for the sake of a disapproving God
I wounded virtue in the name of heaven
I exchanged reason for faith
I threw compassion to the dogs of indifference
What pain has my existence
brought my fellow man?
My path to salvation lies
hidden among the bones
of those I once held dear
Heaven should not
exact such remuneration
for paradise cannot be
purchased with the blood
of hatred and the
tears of martyred tolerance
I will not kneel before
such an altar
Not again
Never again
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
we can watch the waiter clean the dripping puddle of spilled chocolate milk and see how he looks at me disapproving my clumsy hands kinda wishing I never stepped foot in the restaurant and later we should try swimming but not in a pool not in a pond but a great lake (with jellyfish that don't sting) and the ripples will flatten out mimicking the puddle of chocolate milk against the white towel and deep into the night we can imagine the number of glowing bulbs and blades of grass never ending just like the moment just like the day just like the way your hand moves over my arm gliding smooth smooth and flowing glassy without interruption highlighting the way a group of words can manage to escape punctuation leaving behind the choppy tension only dancing on and on to a place that can't be ended with a simple spot of ink directly below the last letter.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
For years
the square inner courtyard,
surrounded by sky-reaching apartment complexes,
accessible only through brief
openings
between the buildings
whose windows looked down
soullessly upon our child's play,
contained my entire world,
and I did not perceive any difference
in the hands, faces, and seasonal limbs
of my friends--
But when I returned
the openings had closed,
the courtyard inaccessible
to an unrecognizable Cincinnati child
whose white face and green eyes
brought only memories--
1884, 1929, 1944, 1967,
and angry April showers
that drowned disapproving windows
in curfews of 2001.
And I do understand.
But,
Would the windows open if they knew
there's black in my line,
way back in my line,
from a time when ships like the Delta Queen--
sailed the Middle Passage
monikered in false virtue
granted by titles like Henrietta Marie--
brought African queens instead of slot machines--
when the fields of mud ran with blood
hemorrhaged from Makhulu's
innocence forcibly stolen
by Grampa's lust.
Now I must window
watch my own daughter,
recalling the lesson
on the names of the week:
You know daddy,
someone just made those names up.
And I can see
beyond her blonde pig-tails--
the darkness of her eyes
recalls the act of shame--
coupled with the sharp wit
of a chained matriarch standing proudly
on the auction block declaring:
These waterways are all connected.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
Sounds rather risqué, right?
Like an unmentionable body part.
Not a person you might care about.
No the other half of your heart.
Not my partner or sweetheart
Not my husband or my lover.
Any of those titles above
Will appropriately cover.
No, they call me your friend,
Your little buddy, your ‘thing’.
That last one I always suffer
As particularly insulting.
But, not my watchacallit,
My whatever, or such euphemisms.
They hit me like less than kind
And disapproving colloquialisms.
I mean, how would you feel
If I referred to your wife like that?
Calling her your sidekick or
Something like a stray cat?
I have no problem with asking
How my honey is doing today.
After all, that’s really who he is.
He’s my sweetheart every day.
So, think for a moment, please
Before you begin to speak.
Your lack of sensitivity can
Only make you look weak.
Just because we didn’t choose
The path you chose to take
Doesn’t mean you’re better than I
So, give this bigotry stuff a break.
He’s my partner and sweetheart
He’s my husband and my lover.
Any of those titles above
Will appropriately cover.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
as if the world could collapse with one disapproving
syllable spoken from your mouth,
as if the reason you hardly sleep at all is because the sun
and moon got in an argument over who gets to spend their hours with
you and decided to compromise,
as if the rain falls simply because you look so lovely with
an umbrella in your hands and I secretly forget mine
on purpose because I want to stand under yours with
you.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
Teatime done with
I went with Helen
across the bomb site
off Meadow Row
and crossed
the New Kent Road
to the ABC cinema
and along side
the dark alleys
dim lights
damp stink
she just behind me
clutching her doll
Battered Betty
by one arm
was that a rat?
she half said
and screamed
could be
I said
you see
them at night
down here
she clutched my arm
with her free hand
Battered Betty
swaying behind her
what we looking for?
she asked
cigarette ends
I said
why?
What do you
want them for?
she asked
make up a smoke
with Rizla *** papers
I said
you smoke
old tobacco?
she said
put it
in your mouth?
If I get
enough tobacco
sure
I said
looking around
the ground
yuk
she said
sometimes
I find dropped coins
I found a cuff link once
silver it was
but one
ain't much good
unless you're
a one armed man
I said
does your mum know
you smoke?
God no
I said
she has enough
to worry about
without me
adding to it
she frowned
clutched my arm tighter
well you shouldn't smoke
she said
you're only 9 like me
and I would never smoke
and our children
when we have them
won't smoke either
she said
she looked
at Battered Betty steely
I pushed her words
and images
out of my mind
for the moment
I saw a semi-smoked
Senior Service
on the ground
by the wall
and stooped
to pick it up
it's got lipstick on it
Helen said distastefully
it's has a woman's
spittle inside
I looked at her
disapproving gaze
and threw it away
yes you're right
I said
men's spittle's best
she frowned darkly
ok
I said
not really
I just jest
another time maybe
I thought
taking her deeper
into the dark
and rats
and damp stink
of drains
remembering it all
it sinking
into my
9 year brain.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
And I forgive you,
Boy who promised me endless tomorrow's
And a lifetimes supply of love
But then left my heart, cold and abandoned
more than once.
I forgive you, best friend who said she would stay by my side no matter what,
And left me sobbing and alone in a pool of my own *****
I forgive you, mother who loves me with the world but can never seem to notice the way my cheeks are always tear stained and how I haven't eaten for a week.
Father, I forgive you for telling me home is always a safe place but making me feel like an imposter in my own home every time I enter the room;
Just because my grades didn't meet your standards.
I forgive you, kind sister who sometimes forgets that I just need a pair of arms to crawl into when I'm lonely and not
Disapproving looks and judge mental comments.
But most of all, I forgive you, sweet girl in the mirror.
Bright smile, brown skin, hateful glare.
I forgive you for not loving yourself enough
And thinking that you're never good enough.
I love you, okay?
And I forgive you for sometimes forgetting that.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC