"discography" poems
I'm not afraid of being called egotistical
For having convictions, for feeling like I matter
But not in that "it matters inside"
Like I'm some hipster flavor of the month
Because if Kim Kardashian is relevant I'm ******* relevant
Tell me what sandwich Kanye ate after he wiped his *** today
Tell me how One Direction smoked *** and wrote a good song finally
Tell me how Arcade Fire thinks electronic music is lesser when they
Record their tracks using a DAW
Tell me how you think Jimmy Page was a sloppy guitarist and then show
me your discography, I probably don't like it as much
Tell me I'm wasting my time, and then go clock back in at work
I'll do the same
Because if Kim Kardashian is relevant I'm ******* relevant
Tell me writing is a subjective craft
Tell me my writing *****
Tell me I'm not touching on any real points
Tell me I'm being too specific
Tell me I don't express myself enough
Tell me to shut the **** up
Tell me I'm a voice for the people
Tell me I should calm down
Tell me to keep writing and working with no recognition
Because if Kim Kardashian is relevant I'm ******* relevant.
Tell me to ignore those facts and keep going anyway
Cause I'll do it, and I'll write this ******* poem about it
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
as soon as she sees it she wants it is entitled to it while she is stealing it she begins elaborate lie everybody knows if she truly wants it she has means everybody knows she is gorgeous movie actress celebrity starlet awesome accessory genius she convinces herself she did not steal it the darling delicate chain with finely crafted handcuff clasp and accompanying key she wears it effortlessly just another imperial trifle hanging around her exquisite throat she has no idea how it got there she may have a drug problem a little dizzy even careless but she is no thief what with her magnificent beauty idyllic body prominent discography why would anyone accuse her she is submerged in deep denial why with so much to lose and absolutely nothing but tiny shimmering embellishment to gain why do tell would anyone point a finger at her she probably wasn’t even ever there at that dicey store she never tried on the astronomically overpriced bling it may have been her dodgy handlers or stylist’s suspect mismanagement and subsequent loan hypothesis she is positively not a thief it’s too insignificant an item to squabble about a mere gold necklace the whole incident ridiculously overblown cruel in fact she hates the miserable paltry piece of jewelry here take it back she insists it never graced her illustrious neck if anything perhaps a cheap ploy by Venice Beach shop to enhance it’s value oh the genuine necklace that she stole
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 12:12 PM UTC
I'm sick of writing
self-righteous sadness
just to drain the abscesses
left putrefying small cavities
that sneaked past my demeanor
so cleverly, so cautiously
Sticky fingers are a hard thing to manage
when everything is crying out to be taken,
i suppose.
I mainly remember ***** smeared in shisha
on the door of a shed where we would go to get drunk
and listen to the two albums left on my rich kid phone
because it's the only music we had, and silence was just slightly too unbearable.
But **** I want to stop citing all these ******* sea wolf songs
before i lose the discography to my inner ocean
and have nothing left to sing my sails
away from here.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
like a walking
smash novel
waiting to happen;
this isn't perks,
there's no ****
and no falcon,
and certainly
no flower grow(ing)
on the wall.
like a british
teen drama
or ******** of
equal magnitude.
this isn't skins,
well it is, just
less exciting,
less meaningful,
less expressive--
basically,
less british
like a discography
from thepiratebay,
or a microsecond
clip of sound waves,
this isn't a teen
anthem, or some
ridiculous ballad
written by puppeteers
who don't know
any better for
children far too
young to even
comprehend
the concept of
loss.
this isn't about
the strain on their
parents or the baby
in her belly, or even
about the ****** up
liver of a walking,
deceased villain,
no.
it's about the
universal and
ubiquitous:
hollowness.
longing.
strife.
the record's straight,
no thanks to me,
we'll all sleep
easier tonight,
won't we?
who am i kidding.
i writed (clever)
a wrong made so
many times before
it doesn't even matter.
it's forgotten,
no longer verbatim,
content to just be;
people describe it
by saying,
"it just is, man."
and that,
ladies and gentlemen,
is a reason to cry.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
danke, und scheiße geruch um beachten! (if ungrammatical then ensure you do not waver to correct me, but speak as correctly as possible and leave me to my insolence and gratify my mistake as championing your correctness, at least thus i'll be glad to make you see what i too wanted to see with my imperfection the suggestive).
western society has taught me
that i'd be better off
not having educated myself -
and that reading philosophical
books is considered a mental illness;
such heightened literacy rates
i almost clamour to buckle
in marking journalism a synonym of propaganda.
no, of course i'm not happy where
i live, i what's deemed a civilisation or
an exportable social model,
a place where you say the word Kierkegaard
and people think you've said gonorrhea,
so the French kiss outlasts oral *** -
tongue here, tongue there, tongue up your ***
you're a credible ****** should it matter,
while all the menial tasks for the unruly
have been exported to made in China -
i ****** Poland for ever wanting to join
the E.U., thank god they didn't adopt the failed
Euro currency - the diversity of the project
would always fail - no slingshot Indians
or bow & arrow akin mattered
when the other Indians gave us the Taj Mahal...
wise too i would be as an Ewok... and a Vindaloo...
wait a minute, why am i writing
like a reformist coloniser? i've been duped!
i learn the english tongue i suddenly
become nothing less than a coloniser myself;
might as well be a viking in york
or a norman at the battle of Hastings!
otherwise i'm a concubine on a mechanised
dildo-throne while the irish are Yuppie
with psychos of american Wolf St. scenarios
awaiting the 1980s discography of
a lucid John Peel commentary.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
Just by the method in which you breath
you create a sort of paradise for me to live in.
You're just my kind of man,
you're a stand up kind of guy.
Now yell at me until my eyes bleed
and stare at me until my ears pop.
Breath life into this breathless song
and breed the love until it is of pure blood.
God knows I'm bad with habits.
They pile up and I can't properly feed them.
So try to be cool.
It's funny how last Sunday, I had a full pack of cigarettes.
Now, I have a nothing but the entire Joyce Manor discography .
And a horrendous headache.
I'm the only one who could ever have any fun
but that was only when I was with you.
So be cool.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Your complicated like the back to the future trilogy,
I'm diggin this if you are , sometimes I think selfishly,
Teenage stuff , nothing to get caught up arguably,
I'm diggin this if you are,
Use to compare you to that stunning actress , noted Miss Ricci,
I got your name on my arm to express my love now baby,
I'll jump off a cliff for you and write you a discography,
I'm diggin this if you are.
/
I notice every time I change for the better ignoring
My past and settling for better things and job offerings,
I put my passion aside for the angels to protect it in its
Day of needing comfort just so I could start Requieming,
I use to wanna write comic books and novels thinking
That I was a young stan Lee or Stephanie Myers despite
My effort to take advantage In making a masterpiece,
Let it rest in peace,
I seen better artwork from the loose leaves,
Falling desperately,
Entering the mind of a maniac , just say please.
/
Gotta dance in the light,
Why not just let it be,
Soul flies like a kite,
First step to being free,
Gotta find the red door,
If you stumble cross the keys,
Have to right all your wrongs,
That's good enough for me,
Walk upon the other side,
Knows the whole biography,
Of your recent whereabouts,
Getting burned damagely,
Have to right all your wrongs...
Have to write all your wrongs...
You're not doomed eternally if you do the right things
That says alot about you as a person and your peers,
All the wishes and the fears,
You could make sure they get sheered , there's a lesson here.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
I mean to uproot your brain when I play with your hair
let it whisper on me like an acorn spinning in
the breeze and dribble gen from a puking child’s mouth.
His skull is a basket, his hands a corset on me now –
I can make you a man once I get the disgusting bits out.
We have different wrinkles outside but our veins sip
blood similarly, a vampire or cannibal or a passionate
fan of our hearts’ discography. I have come to
a fork in the road where your folds become almost pink:
as vivid as a guillotine, the brain is dispensed to me.
Finally, I call him mine! And in my hands is your mind.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
Creating Energy,
Is what I be on, I don't think you can replicate this,
Slow minds in this world, you might as well become
a waitress,
Or a bartender , its crazy how energy loss is like
handing out liquor,
But who cares , go figure,
They say "you should take scientology",
No thanks , not in my discography,
Sway me unapologetically telling you to get
the hell away from me...
New poem titled "Teach Us Freestyle" (Full Poem In Link)
©abpoetry2025.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 11:39 PM UTC
Life is a sequence of songs
Albums a time in your life
Discography your memoir
Chorus your glory
Verses the hard work, your story.
Harmonies the times you connect perfectly
Dissonance your arguements
Noise your chaos
Silence, your true self.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
My muse talked again, but of course not to me-
sitting still headphoned having just listened
to the entire Foxygen discography.
Something is never made from nothing
but some things are always never made-
I watch them pass by from my shut upstairs window
content with lukewarm lemonade.
Money will march to the beat of war drums,
passing through hard hands and chewing gum gums-
it takes what it makes, it gets what it gives
and progress is a prank found on fixed perspectives.
So if not for the cash, or to lend contribution,
why ever should I even step out my door?
Is it so my genes can offend evolution,
or just that my bedroom is such a bore?
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
A window seat
A good book
Dylan's discography
This ought to get me there.
I'm headed out with my life in a bag.
The simplicity of it all on your back.
Profoundly liberating to societies hold.
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 7:57 PM UTC
I had to watch a couple of ****** romantic comedies to see how ****** up you and I were. I had to listen to Maroon 5’s entire discography before I got over you. I came and cried right after 23 times before I stopped thinking of you during *** or as I was pleasuring myself but it only took 23 times.
We were chaotic and I will remember dancing with you on the deck after the rain; I will remember you covering my mouth at 2:31am because my laugh was always, always loud and our roommates were sleeping; I will remember us in rose, the things no one but us knows; I will remember the nights you sat me down and listened as I cried. And I will remember the nights you did not. I will remember our first kiss on a stranger’s couch, and our last in my new bed, 4 months after I moved out. I will remember bending over the bathroom sink at work the day I found out you lied to me, begging god to give me my breath back.
I will remember taking god for granted every minute until I needed him to breathe that night. I will remember you telling me you loved me for the first time, and I will remember the last. I won’t remember you in vain, with anger, with sadness. I will remember you and I for what we were. Rushed. Patient. Crazy. Unsteady, exciting. Happy. In love. Over.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 10:04 PM UTC