"discretely" poems
Dear insecure, emotional, overthinking young man
you've come a long way from way back then
you've lost a lot - but had to realize "who hasn't?"
your strong will seemed to be mistaken a lot from your passion
you've missed out on a lot of love by second guessing & never unmasking
why weren't you truly ever satisfied... nah, that's the question that I'm asking...
your abandonment issues pushed away the potential of something ever lasting
constantly fighting the man in the mirror
hopefully with your new life - you see things clearer
no one ever knew, with you...who they were gonna get
you've missed out on a lot of good times wanting to talk
instead of just letting it go and enjoying the time you had left.
Your favorite pills were self pity, self indulgence, ignorance and regret
you never stopped to listen - stopped talking - hopefully now you allow others words to be said
no woman stood a chance... you purposely acted a certain way to avoid the possibility of true love
discretely pushing them away until they saw nothing and had enough.
don't get me started on your lack of living
missed out on a lot of trips, chances and opportunities
I hope now you've filled that void that is missing
you swore happiness was wealth... power...a line of respect
little did you know it was the little things; the calm, the moments
the people and things in life worth it and willing to invest.
you gave up on a few dreams... figured why fight?
countless times your mind would just run... keep you up all night
you were so afraid of success... honestly, I never knew why
you never freed that little boy trapped - stuck in his father's grasp
he was begging for freedom, you left him struck inside
everyday was another day you thought was your time.
**I hope you live now
I hope you see the beauty life truly is
I hope you found love
I hope you found this**
I needed to write this letter to you - so you can see how far you have come
you can see that change is real
you can see all that you have become
Bland Douglas Simpkins,
that's the man you should be proud to be
no matter what challenges you were faced with
those obstacles were needed, needed to make it to this me
thank those who've came into your life - not all were meant to last
some forced you left - others showed you right
no matter what, some were needed in your past.
So...
Dear future self,
please understand - I'm sorry. For all that I put you through
the truth remains - that without me - just know...
there would be no you.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
Are you willing to take that chance?
To give into my seductive tone?
Let me touch your body with soft slow strokes.
Submitting yourself for an experience that could be your deepest intimate moment.
So let's go as far as much time you permit while my poison runs thur your bones.
Let's be discretely devoted while my voice gives you the chills.
A *** god willing to please his queen behind close doors.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:40 AM UTC
My mother never appeared in public
without lipstick. If we were going out,
I’d have to wait by the door until
she painted her lips and turned
from the hallway mirror,
put on her gloves and picked up her purse,
opening the purse to see
if she’d remembered tissues.
After lunch in a restaurant
she might ask,
"Do I need lipstick?"
If I said yes,
she would discretely turn
and refresh her faded lips.
Opening the black and gold canister,
she’d peer in a round compact
as if she were looking into another world.
Then she’d touch her lips to a tissue.
Whenever I went searching
in her coat pocket or purse
for coins or candy
I’d find, crumpled,
those small white tissues
covered with bloodred kisses.
I’d slip them into to my pocket,
along with the stones and feathers
I thought, back then, I’d keep.
4.6k
My lips can no longer hold back.
The muted tones cannot bring out the infinity that hides
discretely
points
to an exit sign.
Certainty waves goodbye. My only function now is to collapse it.
To put the past behind.
The barred doors allow the bottleneck to tighten for a few hours,
but memory has a way of sounding the alarm in the morning
when the early birds rise,
armed with ancient lessons
that remind me they're the ones who are eating well.
I want to come up from the dirt and drink from the well.
My low-life self can no longer heed the worm's advice:
"Sleep all day and you won't get eaten."
Out.
Out with your tepid voice and halfway disposition.
Out with your elevated mind, your profound commitment to the mediocre task
of enlightening the little people.
The empire you fabricate may stay stitched for a while.
But the clothes of emperors always burst at the seams.
A workaholic, addicted to the common
you're winning your converts with tired dreams, vicarious imaginings of those finer roads, well tread by shoes that are not your own.
You don't believe in the masses. Fine. But get the **** off
your throne.
Reciting badly drawn poems at four in the morning
(it could have been worse e.g. I could have wrote "mourning")
looking to insight myself,
not into a passionate frenzy
like Bacchae drunk on the moonlight.
No -- I want piercing red. That's what I want to be.
Want to show the heavens how I use the precious wine.
Sip it.
Out the undulations go.
Sweating out the great myth that time forgets when it flows.
My pagan-witch ego has put me on the hunt for blood tonight,
and the full moon is giving rise to ****** undulations,
washing up teeny-book explanations
of loves once lost.
But I'm far from my being,
and from the infinite ocean.
And the only sound I can hear right now is my one hand clapping at the curtain call,
retiring my broom,
bowing goodbye.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
catch the last wave and i'll be there
combing the beachhead of our misery
swollen with big love, choking on the theory of our negative heavens
you and i,
we marvel at the heresy of our wisdom
and cherish no giant over divine
we david the furies that are nephelim
but conjure no gods where the plastic can't be useful
we dunder in the bluff of innocent cupids
we -
the idiots on the cliff -
dancing
when the glockenspiel itches !
clock faced and *** up
i'll be there with black honey, " With You "
no doubt
pondering the wrinkles in your sleep breath.
the sweet killing of tomcats and mackerels
the plain fact that our noses
are numb from eskimo kissing
in the igloo of our perpetual alaska
the arctic furnace of our wild fires of pure illusion
to trod stunning over hell's paradise
and catch a glimpse of snarky
stark Silence...
You
catch the last wave -
and i'll be nothing but the singing bones of the wind
in the throes of an ****** of " need you " and only you.
a chosen cyclone from heaven
i'll be just a little boy
in the clutches of a dead teddy
where the poppies sing
hallelujah !
and our hearts blight the orchid of our accord.
and down -
comes, what ?
what do we do ? what could we possibly ?
we hopscotch the bonnets
and glue ravenous bumblebees
to a blanket
of snow.
cause we have the technology -
we can disassemble it...
discretely.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
The sea cast a gift ashore
one stormy sullen day
and the barren rocky coast
was suddenly recast
as a natural history museum.
A whale.
A real whale, just lying there
shining on the shale
In another time,
we'd have known how to react.
This astonishing bounty
would have been quickly stripped
Bones for building
baleen for support
blubber and oil for fuel.
But now it lay
surrounded by detritus
made of better stuff.
The truth was,
we didn't really need it,
couldn't really use it,
like being presented with
Casablanca on VHS.
A sign appeared:
"Quad bike rides, £2",
red paint on rainsoaked cardboard.
I wasn't tempted.
Children poked it with sticks
in a desultory way,
stricken, intrigued, ashamed,
and utterly dwarfed.
The weeks passed
as we coughed in embarrassment
not knowing what to do,
until finally
someone brought a digger down
and discretely buried the beast.
By now, it will be a perfect skeleton
a prehistoric wonder
an artefact from unjaded days
when nature could still astonish,
trampled by unknowing tourists
as they dream of sunnier beaches.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
another
smothered lover
in the Hollywood hills
unbag the bottle
crack the seal
oh the appeal
of intake
for the sake
of intoxication
so meek and unique
in gurgled screams
a pixie in the hand of a king
compelled
to discretely
capture the beauty
in eternity
expelled
i just felt
i had to nest a shell
and befell
clearing her residual
flirtatious signals
even in the squirms
and even in the squeals
even though i know
she yearns
to be hooked by her gills
dragged through landfills
in a projected field
where she would yield
and kiss me.
i'm gonna pretend
to love her
as i tenderly
shove her
in the river
of our love
take her under
my loving thunder
and plunder her
when drugged
dazed in her wonder
i hold her under
from above
if only for a moment
we locked eyes in love
she fit me like glove
remnants
disposed of
in a rug
posed so beautifully
for the smack
hack and rip
one pretty *****
dumped
in an irrigation ditch
triumphed
our wordless
relationship
its over *****
move on with it
in the mouths
of varmints
oh
charming
as im clicking *****
on key chains
sticking misfits
with loose lips
usually homeless
decoys
here to destroy
nothing
in my twisted ploy
to employ
maximum points
conjoint
my addictive anger
to something a little stranger
im going to dangle
her entrails
in front of her eyes
while i'm bangin her
shes looking so surprised
from every camera angle
the mangled piece of ****
what a lamo
hypnotized
in the passing of life
in the
blood
the ***
the ****
and the knife
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
Stress guidelines life discretely and secretly
invisible protracted equation lining us up
oblivious to the sin
much needed a getaway tan
cos we can't make time to de-stress
math may be something to laugh about
mental illness isn't.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
When you ask about one,
people tend to answer with another.
For example:
When you ask somebody
about love,
they tell you about
heart break.
Of physical pain
released through cathartic tears
and
the thumping pitter in your chest whenever you next see
their face.
And when they ask about
my boyfriend
I speak loudly and proudly
of my girlfriend's soft lips
and her love that echoes
as though she had brought light
unto my very essence.
When they ask about
the feel of the earth,
they talk not of the
touch and feel and gritty
texture
but the damp, rotting
smell discretely placed
for you to oppose.
So tell me, friend,
if I were to ask:
Have you had a good day?
Would you answer with the
time your dearest made you
cry
with laughter,
or would you answer with
the void that ***** the
laughter away?
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
The way to the city
on both sides of the street
was discretely displayed
then replayed
as recollections of the mundane
inequitable and respectable
a ubiquitous ritual
with screams of laughter
cries from shouting houses
and grimacing faces.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Originally published by Lucid Rhythms. This poem is based on an account of Edna St. Vincent Millay being confronted by a male Vassar authority about her rogue behavior. However, there is a some poetic license involved, for the sake of humor. It was actually Vassar President Henry Noble MacCracken who mentioned Shelley. Here is his account in a response to a question about Millay cutting classes: "She cut everything. I once called her in and told her, 'I want you to know that you couldn't break any rule that would make me vote for your expulsion. I don't want to have any dead Shelleys on my doorstep, and I don't care what you do.' She went to the window and looked out and she said, 'Well on those terms I think I can continue to live in this hellhole.'" The stuff about Enoch and Moloch is, of course, pure fabrication on my part.
Keywords/Tags: Millay, dead, Shelley, Vassar, dorm, hellhole, drinking, partying, *** cutting classes
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:32 AM UTC
An inexplicable art
Its me running you over in a cart
Its driving a stake through your heart
Its me tossing at your picture a dart
Merciless
Timeless
Beyond my memory vault
Lies something thats my fault.
I dont know what
But it leaves a deep cut
My life is in a rut
Now its a haze
That leaves me unfazed
As I smile discretely
At the memory
Locked Away Deeply
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 7:35 PM UTC
Remove the cold, clean refrigerator water
Poured into your mind to become a bit hotter.
Poison-less, diamond-faceted twinkling glitter
Internal pulse pounds, skitter and flitter.
Your propane personality flickers,
Internal heat hushed, the teapot snickers,
But now higher, higher grows your fire
Melting into you is all I desire.
Louder, louder screams the steam
Announcing inner worth below the outer gleam.
The superheated shouts squeaked out your teeth
Can't compare to the bubbling beauty buried beneath.
Trickle, pour, add some more
You're the tea that I adore.
Sometimes bitter, though discretely sweet
Just a little time and it's complete.
Closed eyed sips make my stomach glow
Melting my inner, internal snow.
And through and through, every batch I brew
I can't help falling a little more in love with you.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
Discretely
Following
Activities posted
Dialing your numbers
Blocking my own
Hanging up
Just after you answer
Long enough
To hear your voice
The memories flood
Of all the times
You’d greet me fondly
Back when you treasured
My existence
This light and energy
Which has dissipated
Since you’ve gone
Lost in the translation
Of goodbyes
The idea
That you never
Want to see me again
Not of any fault of my own
But because you’ve found another
Someone
Who makes you shine
Without trying
As oppose to someone
Who spent every minute
Exhausting options
Trying to make you smile
As I reach your door
I realize
I can’t bring my finger
To your bell
Leaving you content
Hoping someday
You see what I was worth
Call me
Without hanging up
Just to talk
Explain
What went wrong
Find the cure
To the poison that filled us
The one
That caused us to separate
Melting us into nothingness
Leaving me searching
For the pieces
To begin to repair us
Without your help
Or awareness
No permission needed
Because I am convinced
That once you see the big picture
You will come back
And thank me
For all of the effort...
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, sometimes a dream can flip your stage scenes and make them decorated;}
thee heavens come clean
across a kiss untold unbound unseen
with dismals and dears
follows discretely situated
from leaves unintentionally initiated
things ascending to the spine
nerve striking its dim its shine
horizons skirt down faded
feet sand permeated
on fine arts been not made in
a sheet to be fabulous
mis-shaded
like my insides
like my pen slides
been piled overshadowed
been dark uninvaded
she beauty on the purples
majestic manipulated
are them those of these the things you can see not face it?
I saw the heavens
I saw the hells
water colored
wet come to a collision I say come compensated
on highs and lows rays of foes impossible
converge a split second for me
an undeniable to the invisible
feet sand permeated
on fine art I name it
****** by the devils
by the angels sacred
for me in my selfish kingdom
my so called salvation
a place my nights breathe annihilation
even better than them those sent in that teleportation
mere those moments of gazes
scrapes buried for future destination
on the whites of my imagination
left to my unconsciousness a decision
a piece of my mind
an official declaration
a moon arose from the dead to my incarnation
not await for another
I state a once and for all deprivation
despite the lunar bothers
something for me
I owe no explanation
moon me so light so bright
so dim so dark
to the bits of the ends of the marks
the places I cant reach
they afar
stay there but stay near
to me my moon my fear
------raven feels
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 12:45 PM UTC
Like a celebrity of the slums
She moves from crackhead to ********** status
******* ***** for rocks
Armed with her glass and copper apparatus
Times come when she's broke
She's got no coke to smoke
So she has to make a selection
Pick a good vic with a thick wallet
and an ********
She spots her mark
He looks pretty easy
She struts over to his car lookin
cheap and ******
She gets in and he tells her what he wants her to do
They see a darkened alley and start to drive through
He hands her twenty bucks and she discretely hides it
then she grasps his zipper and slides it
down
She looks at his **** and starts to frown
She says "This is too big,it just wont fit"
He says ***** I gave you my money,now work for it!"
Then he's got her hair in his hands and he's forcin it
She feels a split in her lip
She tastes the blood drip
He busts his nut
****** **** he shouts
She wipes her mouth and quickly gets out
Sherie's back on the street and it herself
she blames
Her mascara runs as she stumbles in the rain
down the pull off lane
She tells herself," One more trick!"
Just more hit!
But the next car she climbs in
gets her throat slit.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
*I forget what speaks louder of you;
if it is the hunger of my lips
longing to kiss you
or the kiss waiting discretely
to be born from yours
swaying on the verge of vulnerability
I forget if it is the kiss
that tender
and irresistible
becomes unbreakable;
your soul’s assent
or if it is the words in note
the morning writes and you erase
in an innocent attempt to
hesitate your truth
pausing at its tip
or the shrug
off your left shoulder blade
that briefly masks your will
before it is abandoned
at the edge of quiet moments
when you heed without refrain
It is the candidness of silence wept
to carry the ripest, sweetest kiss
onto my wanting lips
without disturbing yours
in truth
unrelentingly
and quietly insatiable*
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 2:42 AM UTC
Public swimming pool opening soon.
All welcome.
It’s free and it’s your money
anyway
built for the community
not through philanthropy
but through taxes.
Sometimes we collect so much taxes
we don’t know what to do –
so we throw in a pool
so Council does not drown in the money we collect.
You can’t swim?
So what?
Just jump in – there’s plenty of water to drink.
It’s really free flow of drinks –
drink as much as you can.
**** in the pool while you’re in, if you like.
Do it discretely.
Public swimming pool opening soon.
All welcome.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 6:36 PM UTC
Such a dull evening
Enlightened by your woeful presence.
From the black humidity you came
Out of the silence of the air,
Oh mysterious woman of the night
Beauty topped with long brown hair,
How you jog so gracefully,
And remove thy shirt so discretely.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
The mirror is shining
It’s reflecting me
I’m not so sure I like the picture I see
Yes, I love this person
I love this me
But I’m not so sure I like the picture I see
My eyes blink
Eyebrows ruffle
Been some long livin
Seen some short troubles
Unwinding through turns
Bends in the street
I’m not so sure of this trek I seek
I see where I come from
I discretely feel free
I’m just not sure of the trek I seek
Footprints form
Owls wing
The future unfolds
While destiny sings
I’m not so sure what all of this means
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 12:01 PM UTC
I ran through the near dead fields
Turned my face to look at the approaching sun
Saw a friend up ahead who'd taken the lead
Man, I remember how that ****** could run
He saw my eyes then glanced away
Running with hastier speed up ahead
I lurched my back, holding a minute to stay
Then pushed my corpse forward like pencil lead
Crashing gulls flicked their beaks skyward
Waves soared worriedly & quietly
I put down my pack, scanning the horizon skyward
Searching for a message that lay discretely
The God's had planned this place with no certain goal
An experiment made from the cauldrons of the unknown
A transparent figure dances with smooth dead marble
The echo of my voice becomes a fond youthful warble
Tell the cities, the farms, the outhouses, and all of nature
That the beauty that lay there is all we need
Money is nothing but a cat n' mouse in the pasture
The grinning Devil's heavy hearted plead
He reached the peak of the mountain
He sat there high & proud, taking out his fountain
Eyes meeting he stepped off, a note left, away from me forever
He was always stubborn, always so ****** clever
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
… On a bustling street,
she shuffles her feet,
her eyes hold a desperate heat,
eyes darting, discretely charting
a line through the crowds that are parting for her.
In a world of abundancy,
she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
her life breathes new life into the rubble
from a fickle society’s burst bubble.
Her world otherwise grey,
she colours her day,
collecting, affecting
what the world has thrown away.
Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
discarded, unguarded;
all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.
Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.
She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.
She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.
Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.
In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.
She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.
She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.
Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.
On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
It rips, bites and tears at me
Longing to escape the cage
From my mind It has discretely
become this solemn rage
on the inside nothing seems right,
outside, nothing can go wrong
it is because this internal fight
Has been waged for far too long
It is now time, at this beginning,
For me to begin showing
minds that have since been thinning
and will soon be known as knowing
once this essential deed is done,
I am able to start anew
but this task is no easy one
because my victim is you.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
we were born
empty
vessels to be filled with
longing for
purpose
only to be
the used
versions of ourselves
living to
pursue living
denying
to pursue
dying
consumed by all
desire
lay across
my
paths discretely
****** by constant
wants
to change
how the world views
me
sun comes a
new day!
the body becomes
empty slate
begins
sliding
swinging
by again!
Nightingale reappears
forwards
my emotion
primal
to contain
vessels open
by
unused
space
and parts
to fill the
whole.
we are designed
escape the Torment
souls (have faces too)
ashes endowed
roots to
uncloud
the human mind
free
begins
in deep pikes
Breaking
the ground.
we,
to You
resound
Consciousness
vile disguise!
freeing
vessels no more.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
I moved to Africa... and
now i have my ghost swahili
discretely... my skin, too white to be
a lion's grunt. But I serve no wildebeest
on two legs.
I love the broken yurts and the falls of Victoria.
I come from where we all come from.
And having arrived
I love best the world
from where I've
been.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC