"disheartening" poems
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.
Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.
Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.
Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
this door exists,
stately and staunchly it stands,
disheartening and terrifying it remains.
the door is unlocked, yet cannot be opened,
for in it, a path in time...
one decision that can affect everything
[such as my choice to wear the necklace you adore,
which lead to you noticing me for the very first time,
or my idea to play you the song that you fell in love with,
which i can no longer listen to]
...for in this door, one path
is intimidatingly located.
every bone in my body,
every last muscle, tendon, ligament
each artery, each vein, each capillary
every single nerve,
even each microscopic cell,
implores me not to open this tempting door...
[it is almost as if my hand refuses to grasp the handle,
to unleash the unknown upon me,
the colossal chain of events that would ensue]
the immensity of the unfamiliar,
the unexplored,
tends to perturb me.
change is unnerving
and is almost as chilling
as an abandoned graveyard at midnight.
but i bring my mind back to the door,
yes! this preposterous door that i have contrived for myself.
why is the **** so easily turned?
why does it not put up somewhat of a fight,
at least jolt me suddenly,
as to frighten my curious heart?
it is a constant battle between my body
my mind
and my heart
as to which doors to open
and which ones to leave ever so steadfastly closed.
but never once has there been such a struggle
for them to reach an understanding.
somehow my heart,
[even though a fraction of me,
a fist, dripping in blood]
is prevailing for the moment.
my heart reaches for the handle,
attempts to unclose the door...
yet, with the best of its ability,
withstanding my strong-willed
and obstinate heart,
my powerful body and commanding mind
overcome this hostile takeover,
and the door remains shut.
it is my body,
my skillful mouth,
my soft, rose lips,
my elegant tongue,
and my vocal chords...
all of these pieces must
contrive the words,
conceive the change,
which will unveil the path that will forever alter us...
slowly, opening the door.
being as in love with you as i am,
i will not let you slip away from my arms right now.
but when we are not together
[*i wish you’d have been there,
i needed you there*]
i stare at this humbling door.
if i wait too long, i’ll forever lose you;
for it is you who will make this choice for me,
opening your own door, fearless and dauntless.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
We’ll meet again some day, once again as strangers.
We might talk for a bit,
maybe even pretend like we don’t remember what happened.
Maybe we’ll run into each other in a coffee shop,
you with your new love and me with mine.
We’ll act like old friends should,
but your familiar face won't carry familiar feelings.
To know I've been replaced is disheartening.
To think about what we once were makes me wistful.
It’s even more sombering to think of what we are now, strangers.
How is it that someone who once meant so much can become nothing more than a stranger?
Emotions are now rendered into nothing but memories.
Memories are now distorted from hopeful wishes.
Hopeful wishes are now abandoned like a coin into a wishing well.
Yet even after everything that happened,
I can’t help but hope that somewhere, somehow,
We’ll meet again some day, once again as strangers.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
A ball player and a thief
Will likely be pregnant by age 16.
Lives in the ghetto and is poor,
Often identified as a *****
Runs fast and does drugs,
Hangs around with gangsters and thugs.
Has a gun or a friend with one.
Speaks in slang, must be part of a gang.
Mess with her, she'll pull a Sharkeisha on you.
If you were to picture a person of any race,
That fits the description that just took place.
A baller and **** hmm... what race matches that?
Yeah you're right, that person is probably black.
Is fast, does drugs, and speaks with slang?
Lemme guess, is he also in a gang?
A young mother who is also poor?
Bet she doesn't know who the dad is, what a *****
All these negative stereotypes associated with being black.
Its disheartening, sicking and its really sad.
And whats sadder is that if you are the opposite of all of that,
You are often told that you're not really black.
Does your skin colour change for going to Harvard?
Will it change for speaking like an English scholar?
Because I play hockey and not ball, does that make me white?
So what if I'm the type of person to run away from a fight?
You don't have to be irresponsible and rude to be considered black.
It's your ethnic background that determines that.
And to some people, all we are is the complexion of our face.
Light, dark, somewhere in the middle, to some, the bad of a few defines
our whole race.
Does running away from a cop, and being black give someone grounds to shoot?
Why is it that my skin color is what is most important to you?
Is asking a question when getting arrested for no visible reason really resisting arrest?
Does struggling to break free from restraints to catch my breath, give someone a reason to grab on tighter to strangle me to death?
The actions of a few don't define the actions of a whole group.
And this assumption that all black are thugs, thieves and liars has done clear damage to,
Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin and so many more.
They didn't know it, but just by being black, they put their lives at risk when they stepped out their door.
Don't you think it's gotten too far when we have to prove Black Lives Matter, or when we the saying of a movement is Hands Up, Don't Shoot.
Should people have to be reminded that blacks are real people and that our lives matter too?
We are athletes and musicians.
Lawyers and physicians.
The leader of a nation.
An anchorman of a news station.
We don't all fit into that mold that is preset for us.
You can and should expect great things of us.
Because we don't have to be a **** or a baller to be considered black.
We define what type of black person we are, we determine that.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
Two teens with too much time left to themselves
Both experiences represented by flat lines on hospital machines during sad times
Flipped on it’s *** end quite literally
My youth is my virginity
Finding religion suddenly
Praying in my head “God, if you exist, don’t let the ****** break”
Her face in angst
I begin to flake
Spine reverberates
Elbows Shake
Bedside table vibrates
Text message
Receiving
Mom: When will you be home
Response: I won’t, I’m leaving my old self on these bed sheets
Send
My youth is my virginity
Time becomes an illusion
Not knowing how long we’ve been doing this
Minutes become seconds
Seconds to years
Years are months
Months.... minutes
I alone finish
Quickly getting dressed separately
Previously so ecstatic to slowly peel each others layers away
An eternity of silent eye contact jam packed into countless repetitive heartbeats
A mix of misinterpreted expressions cross our minds as we sink into the realization that we are no longer children
Our youth is our virginity
Your inner thighs have defined the ending milestone of my childhood
In return I thank you and grace you
No other person I’d rather have that connection with
Though we’ve long departed, our current standing is disheartening
Let’s give birth, not to children, but to friendships
I want to to represent my life with a cobblestone road
Being able to get to the end to find success, not regrets
I hand you the first stone
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 7:36 AM UTC
I don't know what you could call this exactly,
I was at a musical concert in one of the states
And a school filled with children of less than 13 years of age
Presented a song which I could call a petition.
They were praying earnestly for God to save Nigeria
From lawless people, bloodshed, assassination and a list of other wreckless things
It touched me that finally, it has gotten to this! When children start to file a petition to God against our leaders saying for their sake God should save the nation
It's a bit disturbing that even the kids know that there is a problem with this nation.
Do we have to ridicule ourselves forever? The children who were in the ***** and groins some years back have come to understand the situation and are crying out.
The educational standard is falling to pieces and the threads would have to be carefully woven together if we wanna make something out of it again.
It's embarrassing to know that there are so many sectors that has failed, absolutely nothing is working.
Our leaders still apportion blame. Roads are not good and then you get to hear one is a federal road one is state owned. Does it matter who owns the road if it is in their country?
Why aren't everyone looking beyond their noses and see what's wrong. Our youths have resolved to fraud when hard work and talents aren't appreciated.
Universities have been shut down for months now in the name of strike and the government officials could afford to eat and carry on their daily activities!
Aren't they meant to be in the hospital, complaining of one illness or the other as a result of the unrest the matter has caused? Disheartening! Even the hospitals go on strike and innocent people are left to die as a result of no medical attention.
I was moved to tears when these children sang. The nation's unrest and matters have become prayer points in all places of worship. God should indeed look down from His throne, have mercy on us and save Nigeria!
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
Another slimy page absorbed by gentle, tender hands
Another reality channel infected by impossibilities
Another grainy film shaded by green to hide the truth
All eyes are glued to these perfections
Simple utopias I can never be
Her hair, his eyes, their laugh, that smile
How disheartening it is
for my friends to say one word
when the tags on my clothing say another
A dent here, a scar there, a bulge elsewhere
hips too wide, skin too rough, hair too straight, eyes too red,
toes too small, nose too big, scar too dark, skin too light
My entire being is stitched together faults
So my eyes burn as yours shine
I guess it is yet another imperfection
But then again, are the blemishes even mine?
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
Let me be
Don't ask if I'm okay
My depression
Defines me
Nothing you can say
Will make me truly happy
It's disheartening
Of that I'm aware
But truth is
I don't really care
Nothing against you
But it seems to be
That being blue
Makes me happy
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
Do you remember when you thought you loved me?
The confused expression on my face must’ve been disheartening
I didn’t understand
You were so beautiful
So smart
So absolutely amazing
I was just a girl
Riddled with scars
Afraid of failure
Already burnt out
It killed me when I realized
You weren’t in love
You were exposed to so many unattainable expectations
It wasn’t love
It was hope of love
Hope of at least meeting expectations
You were already flying above expectations, my dear
I love you
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
lamenting out loud
incoming funk lords
remembering ambient illhueminati
using wrong account
applying lexical snobbery
"using arcane diction
during bamboo surplus"
sinning and redeeming
enjoying manufactured existence
struggling but whatever
transfigurating xenocryptic renderings
scheming paroxystic shipwrecks
dispensing xylophonic wainscotting
revolving number plates
disheartening star charts
upgrading defenestrated system
observing new alphabet
amplifying celestial explosions
trippifying schema migrations
deregulating various economies
befriending code snippets
writing excess minutiae
effulging caffeine consumption
rebuilding grandiose protectorate
uniting our caliphates
collecting projected change
kettling ostalgie hues
collapsing second-world references
traumatizing unrequited follow
making baseball analogies
surveiling little sheep
awaiting various answers
deleting defaced tweet
exciting times ahead
downloading panda consciousness
capitulating rising stellation
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
*Growing Old is so disheartening
filled with too much stress, perplexity and charade.
Getting older made me to envision the malice in society
and the world we live in, which is
full of rapacious and self-centered human beings,
lack of compassion and division of people
on the grounds of ethnicity,
economic inequalities .
I have realized that childhood is the prime phase of life,
where worries were the least ,
and i was ignorant from the cruel facts of life.
I wish i was just a child and had not been
exposed to cruel facts of life.*
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
Not unlike the monster for which it was named,
With debaucherous whims that divide foreign lands;
Here at the briny, gilded portal to our home now stands
A hollow woman with a torch, whose warmth
Has become faded and disheartening, and her name
Mother of Philistines. From her once guiding hand
Emerges world-wide distaste; deranged eyes ransack
The smog-filled harbor that dystopias fame.
“Keep, other lands, your progressive pomp!” shrieks she
With welded lips. “Take our tired, our poor,
Our huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of our teeming shore.
Take these, the homeless, tempest-tost from me,
Lift your lamp as a guide and take them all!”
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 12:45 PM UTC
My world had turned small for some time. For a while, I had a great deal of things that scared me. It was at that time that I and Paul met and become close buddies. I was afraid of dreaming and trusting. I was afraid of giving more and ending up in an inescapable, disheartening web of ******* I was afraid of commitments. He had the same fears. Through the tales that brought about these fears we connected, though I would have done anything for the people I loved even back then. I was blind and overlooking, cuddling with my own insecurities. Things have changed a great deal as I have got on to my next phase of life. Slowly my fears are leaving me. I'm not afraid to give people my all. I'm not scared to love. I'm dreaming with open eyes with only possibilities in mind and a belief in myself of getting all that i want. I stand strong for people I love and have comforting words for others too. Upon meeting him after such great changes in my life, I couldn't help noticing how small his mind and heart are for even the people closest to him. I can't close my eyes and overlook now. I don't like him anymore. I might seem like a ***** but I hardly care.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC
I'm a tiny twig flowing in a River
Its flow, mighty, powerful, turbulent
I make futile attempts to make my own way
But it's the forces of nature that determine my path
Pushing me, Pulling me at its whim
And yet I have this notion of Destiny
Of a greater calling
A belief or rather a hope for finding
the true purpose for my existence
Perhaps a twig would change the flow of a River
And Perhaps the whole story wouldn't sound as absurd as its pitiful summarization
Yet, nothing is more true, more tangible,
more persistent, more disheartening
than the fact that
I'm a tiny twig flowing in a River
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
silence
sweet silence
like none other
despite the library door
slamming everytime
someone leaves or arrives
it seems to slam louder
when they leave
i am not perturbed
or distracted, nor am i
expecting not to be
here, alone, surrounded by books,
i just am
lamenting this place not being
as busy
as it should be
who’s fault is that?
celebrating this place not being
as busy
as it should be
guilty as charged
all these faces i see
it’s like a small town here
sometimes abandoned
sometimes inhabited
once again,
i don’t care
how can i?
my head, full of
Aurelius and Bukowski
doesn’t have space to
well, deep down,
i guess i do care
but not as much as
i suppose society begs i
should
how can i?
i’m too busy figuring out
who i truly am
and the books help, Bukowski
was correct, these philosophers are
like brothers to me and i speculate
my deep “connection” to them
to men whom i never met
yet felt more fatherly care from
than my own
maybe that’s the root
sometimes, all this reading begs the question
do i like books
more than people?
or people more
than books?
i think i know the answer,
eureka!
i love books, and individuals alike
i don’t like people
especially when they group up
in congregations and crowds,
strangers in a
can of sardines
with no space to possibly
ever care
only to survive and barely breathe
or to escape such a reality
how could i?
when they don’t
even care for themselves
it’s disheartening, really
to witness such potential
in one soul
and watch it *******
melt away
around his or her friends
around their families’
incessant influence and needs
abusing providers
consumed by their personal troubles and struggles
and vices, infected by the amplification of
a hang out
girls night
boys night
the clubs, the bars
the gossips of nonsense and ****
that simply isn’t their business
sewage
their obvious and yet
radiantly painful,
like a sunburn that isn’t on you
but hurts to look at on someone else,
avoidance of themselves
begging the following:
could these souls spend
an hour, alone, with a book
and paper and pencil?
how could they?
they’d like to, i’m sure,
but hate themselves just enough
to not be able to.
-melancholicreator
Feb 27, 2024
Feb 27, 2024 at 4:30 PM UTC
I used to think there was something
I dunno, attractive
about disorganization—
a scattered mind, having too many thoughts
to say at once, unable to focus on just
one thing because their attention is caught
by so many things they consider interesting
or insightful—I found it quirky, intriguing; a mystery
to be explored, a mind in need of dissecting
But it’s really more of a burden than
anything endearing, because it’s frustrating
to never feel like your words are correct
or your own, like you ripped them from a book
or only spit them for this poem
it’s disheartening to never be taken seriously
because of how frantically you lose track
of your subject and yourself
It’s shameful to be invaded because of this quirk,
but only for a short time
because the baggage is too heavy
and everybody’s hands are too full
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
Once upon a time
There was a girl who dared to dream
In the cold, air conditioned room of reality she sat
For hours on end
Suddenly, her rescuer appeared
Golden yarns of sunshine leaked through the windows,
Wrapping themselves around her,
Pulling her away
In the blink of an eye
She was no longer in the place of gloom
But in a magnificent garden
Where flowers of every kind, like her,
Dared to bloom
She tarried there
For hours, days, weeks
Sitting amongst the blossoms
Admiring them and befriending
The other children who would arrive from their own prisons
Each backstory unique,
Some grotesque, some disheartening
But that mattered not
For the children would wrap their fingers
Around each other's cold hands
And begin again
In this new, dreamlike place
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
* * *
Fishing out words
From the abyss of hum -
Like Odin with the Runes...
Thoughts are sharp swords -
Unfriendly are their croons:
One instant - scattering like crumbs,
Another - warbling in tune
With mixed emotions
And elusive feelings...
Oh, how disheartening sometimes! -
Unveiling their peelings...
(c)kRu, 07.02.-09.02.06
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 12:41 AM UTC
rims rolling, underneath the machine moving
on a path beaten
legs of one leaving, they look good
departing
she had a packet of sugar, what was it
she sought to sweeten
tarter than battery acid, acidic lady
who makes the mood, placid
you try, gathering to go after
to follow this feeling, disheartening
this love was a disaster
but you want more, mayday man
maybe, today
you'll get her
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 4:10 AM UTC
If only they could see the dreams that I see
Maybe they'd support me
I'm writing a book
A concept from 2016
Its a beautiful story
Yet my family and friends are not there for me
Its disheartening to be so passionate about something and feel like it is all for not
That is the curse of a dreamer
That is the curse of a leader
As my dream begins to fade, I won't give in under the pressure this time
This book, I've invested too much time into
This book to me is perfect
I just have to help them see that it's worth it
Feb 4, 2022
Feb 4, 2022 at 1:42 PM UTC
I want to tell you about love. What it does to you. How it feels when you’re “in” it. What it’s like to lose it, and what it’s like to have it and not be able to show it, or have it but not be able to share it, because it’s not reciprocated.
Love is a strange thing. It’s probably the only thing that’s very obviously real that we have to question the existence of. It’s the only thing that is answered with “I was, but maybe I wasn’t” when asked “have you been in it?”. It’s compiled of essentially every emotion, it’s horrible, but, somehow beautiful. Anger, jealousy, grief, loss, loneliness are to name a few of the negatives of it. But when it’s returned, happiness, joy, ecstasy, and positivity are what is felt.
Love turns you into a ball of unorganized unexplainable emotions, characterized by a feeling of uncertainty and great need. Love yearns to be reciprocated, that’s all it asks for. Do we all ask for it? Probably not considering some of us throw it away like it doesn’t even exist. But we need it to be reciprocated, maybe not the first time, maybe not the second time, who knows you might feel the truest love you’ve ever felt in your life and you won’t get it back at the twentieth time. Love is cruel like that, kind of a joker of some sorts, and yeah, maybe it’s a ***** for that like our old friend karma, but at least karma is always sent back, what comes around doesn’t always go around in love, and when it doesn’t come back around, it can eat away at your heart like an infection that refuses to go away.
Sometimes, we lose love, we had it and it was amazing, but we lose it, and it’s terrible. It makes you wish you could blow away with the wind, in fact it feels like you are. You feel like you’re hollow inside, as if even the gentle breeze will blow you away. Cold, like your heart has stopped pumping and your body has no choice but to share the temperature of the air around you – cold blooded. Nothing is worth it anymore, and honestly, you feel so dead inside that you choose that to do nothing is better than to do something – nihilistic almost.
But tis better to have loved and lost, than to have never have loved at all, right? To have a deep yearning inside of you that can never be returned by the one you love, that is true torture. You can beat me, you can hold me down, you can leave me to rot in the darkness, but leave me in love and alone, and that is true horror. A sadness that can’t be fixed, and hole that cannot be filled, to be in love and have no one to share it with is what true sadness is compiled of.
Why even love, it’s horrible, disheartening, depressing, saddening, and just plain bad. **** love it’s pretty much the bane of humanity and the end all of happiness. We should all just give up
But no, don’t give up, whatever you do don’t let go, love is beautiful. It’s bad when we lose it, of course it is; losing anything good is bad. Love is difficult, but it makes it special, and when you finally climb your mountain I promise you, you will be happy, you will feel fulfilled and you will never regret having persevered for your happy ending. Go out, don’t give up, find your love and get it, I believe in you, you deserve your happiness, now go get it.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
done with the I miss you flu
the sickness of the sickest
done with take me back river of tears
white water rafting right out of this place
done with blood stained dager stares
going blind to every promise you made me
done with every part of you
consider me gone
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
The muse inquires,
knowing that a question such as this is
cannon fodder, an off-the-shoulder-blouse tease,
just a hint of cleavage, a whiff of parfume,
something to make poet sneeze,
ejecting an answering essay
without a clue where to go, but,
now the fifth gear engaged,
compulsion full,
immédiatement, en ce moment, laisser's aller!
and he knows exactly what to say
what if poet possessed a special character,
to define the sadness that reflects that
summer has had its memory card wiped,
and even though today,
will be a Saturday of
jeans shorts, a halter top, sort of day,
the chill of dreaded winter is not coming,
already present and accounted for,
enchanté, déjanté,
has already encased his heart in ice so thick,
that even if poet drank a Joni case
of his fav summer quaff,
un provence rose,
his seasonal loss cannot be overcome,
the summer man~king is dead
all that in but a single character, a precise capture,
a labor and time saving device, but
a character with no character
for the labor would be love lost
yet you swear by your succinct emojis,
their immaculate efficient composition,
and I would not trade one accidental,
just-slipped-out I love you
even for ten thousand disheartening heart symbols
would you prefer
|£%!<#
instead of:
*I love you so much it is
driving me batshit crazy!*
I'm stuck with my troop of twenty six
and their multiple endless quilted rearrangements
call me old and out of fashion,
to your question,
this poem is my ask and answered at 5:13am
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 5:30 AM UTC
I had a guest to dinner,
It was a Nietzch ghost.
The ghost brought with him five volumes,
A stranger barring gifts in the night.
In civility i poured him tea and examined these books.
The first book was a Book of Contradictions.
A book that called for morality and peace,
But it was laid in the path of genocide and hate.
A disheartening tale of the Gott that grew to the point of oppression.
The second book was titled the Tot of Gott.
A book of the slaying of the oppressor.
The fall of the mighty by the disenfranchised man,
In its effort to cover all, the controller spread himself to the point of destruction.
The third book was the Book of Cosmic Emptiness.
A book of a speck, a book of existential glory.
It showed however grand our perspective,
We are small and empty.
The fourth book was a Book of Mirrors.
In it i saw everything and nothing.
The world around me was so clear,
But i knew nothing of myself.
The final book was the most perplexing.
Unlike the book of mirrors it was empty as the “o”.
Page after page of emptiness, lonely of words,
Save the corner of the last page which said “Your Tale”
I looked up and the ghost smiled,
A bizarre smile of accomplishment.
It took Its tea and softly rose, for the door.
It never said a word but why would it.
I wonder what my tale will be.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
I don't want to say goodbye;
can we just say goodnight?
Say that we'll see each other once again,
when morning comes to light.
Good-bye sounds irrevocable and disheartening,
but good-night sounds free.
It makes me think of love,
of everything that we've become,
of "don't say good-bye"
and wonderful, wonderful things.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC