"documentaries" poems
my shrink told me:
"Feelings:
Pathetic.
Baked clouds:
Attention!
A broken butterfly:
Holy fear"
abortion, gay marriage, suicide, depression, faith diversity, disunion, pacifism, the internet, green peace, the national institutes of guns, alcohol and cigarettes, math teachers, poorly written books and well-written books, science, documentaries, the 90′s Cartoon Network, solutions for first, second and third world problems, the Venus project, conspiracy theories, poker, chess and backgammon, ****** music, female ******* boys playing with dolls and offensive language are nothing
we are all attention ******
we are born and buried
for attention.
we endure awkwardness
for attention.
we have *******
for attention.
god will be afraid of us
for attention.
so I told him:
"Let's face it
nothing will be everything!"
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
When my daddy leaves me,
I will sleep in his button-down, collared shirt.
I will smoke one cigarette each year on his birthday.
I will always sit in the last seat of the row at the movie theaters.
I will set a pack of junior mints down on his grave religiously.
I will learn how to play 'Stairway to Heaven' on the guitar.
I will always address my waiter or waitress as Sir or Ma'am.
I will become lifelong friends with perfect strangers.
I will always keep a pack of minty gum in my car.
I will watch National Geographic documentaries on how the universe works.
I will learn how to make delicious, impeccable chicken fried rice.
I will never, ever spank my children.
When my daddy leaves me, I will remember him
With all the little things I do.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
i can't believe i'm living out my life's
10 seconds of stupidity with
an un-payable debit account security
of future credit, loans, debt and moaning...
**** me double twice blind with a joker in hand...
of course i'm stupid, i got educated in
a world that pays you back with menial
labour, to look pretty... seriously,
don't do the stupidest thing imaginable and
get yourself a university degree, unless
you're a woman, that's fine, you'll get to
meet and voluntarily wet your ******
with the next president of Romania,
but we need idiot mechanics, and believe
me, i'd rather oil up car pistons like
stroking giraffe necks of Myanmar women....
from **** generals cited through to Epicurus' citation...
believe me, i wish i was smarter,
most of posthumous fame is a regard of
obstructive i.q.,
we were believed to not take offence at our
exposure to systematisation
which educated both thief and banker...
none of the two differ... both excusable buffers...
we trusted people... trust was our biggest idiotic remark...
and now the earth in spin... for endless maxims:
it's like that... and that's the way it is;
no wonder i end up watching serial killer
documentaries.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
Homework turned in on time
Straight A's is what I strive for
Seen as a nerd by most
I see myself as someone who simply wants more
Oh, so I don't have a life?
Because of my grades?
Excuse me for knowing
When to work and when to play
You call me lame, a geek
Ever consider I'm trying to escape poverty?
Saying I was "born smart"
As an excuse
For why I'm doing better than you
No, I don't go home and read
Every minute, every day
Or go straight home and study
Or watch documentaries
Yes, I believe education
Is my purpose
For coming to school everyday
Honestly if I didn't learn anything
It wouldn't be worth it
I have a life that branches
Far away from this school
Don't call me a "nerd"
Because I want a future more than you
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Ever wondered about my style?
What I admire and what I deem vile?
Well, gather around, I'll let you see
Who I am, through what else, but poetry?
My favorite flower is a cherry blossom.
As for food, bread is awesome.
I spend much of my time on Twitter.
I like birds, the ones that flutter.
My favorite author is Ms. Anne Rice.
Her book, "Memnoch" is very nice.
My favorite poet is Aleister Crowley.
As for artist, that would be Dali.
I like Reggae straight from Trenchtown.
Most of all, I like System of a Down.
Philip Wesley is my favorite composer.
If I may be so bold, Chopin, move over.
My favorite film is Sweeney Todd.
By my top director, who is slightly odd.
Johnny Depp is my favorite actor and hunk.
I'm not a fan of touchdowns and dunks.
A big interest is Nutrition and Health.
I'm against Corporations and Banks, with all their wealth.
I like Documentaries and things that make me think.
Carrot juice is one of my favorite things to drink.
My favorite painting hangs on my wall.
The artist or name, I have not a clue at all.
I like eating cherries and playing pretend.
I like talking to those I consider a friend.
I like dancing at raves, even on the stage.
I like my job, though it's minimum wage.
I'm good without gods, I bow to none.
No political party, with that, I'm done.
That about sums me up, I hope you see
My likes and interests described to a tee,
In the fashion of the rhyme scheme A and B.
Did I mention the fact that I write poetry?
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
I want to crack your ribs open
to see if your lungs
are scorched black
from dented memories
you don’t understand quite yet,
from misinterpretating documentaries
and mellow cigarettes.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
Thank you for everything,
Even though I didn’t receive anything,
I loved the time we spent
For what it was meant.
Even though your distance hurts me
I will be the first one to say
You taught me how to find the way
When my heart was mercilessly slayed
I forgive you; I still love you,
But, for what is worth,
You were my new birth,
A birth to new life,
One where I became invincible for life.
Your heartbreak made me strong,
Made me realize where I went wrong,
Now I know what do,
When someone leaves me like you.
Thank you for what time we spent
The sleepless wide awake
I know you thought about me once
But I remember you with every pulse
Your sweat memories,
Are stored like documentaries;
Your joyful laughter,
Is what I am still after.
However, distanced we are,
Just remember I am not far,
If u need a friend in the middle of the night,
Call me and I will be as ready as a knight.
I know we can’t amend the past,
I know you treat me like I am your past,
You don’t even see me anymore,
Then what do the late-night talks for?
Girl all you gave me was hatred,
But this was my heart’s prize,
Or I shall say price,
For loving you for the years I waited.
But in the end I thank you,
For everything you lead me too,
I am out of your sorrow,
And waiting for a stronger tomorrow.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 2:56 PM UTC
Undisguised not camouflaged
Standing out, A bright sun
in the blue sky stars hidden
within go unnoticed by the
Indifferent world Trapped
in their own cocoon of delusions
Unable Unwilling to metamorphose
to the beauty of kindred nature
into a free fall spiraling down
into the mundane
Illusion of Solid crust
beneath which the turbulent
molten lava flows
sometimes bursting out
yet another times causing
Tsunami and tremor
And yet the indifferent world
lays blinded by floodlights of duty
warming blanket of empathy
shredded by scissors of hate
buried within the grave yard
under the tombstone of misery
The different who rise up
from time to time are consumed
by the indifferent
like a flash of lighting absorbed
by the indifferent earth as storms
of war thunder around in dusky
skies and innocent plants take refuge
in purging rains only to be flooded
out into the indifferent sea of documentaries
only to make a trickle of frozen blood flow through
the chambers of tranquil heart
and indifferent yet try to contribute
subduing the thorny vines of growing guilt
by a click of like or share or Tweet
Sometimes the silent song
is heard through the sonorous
souls within mind and winds
of change blow nucleating through
an idea propagating through words
symbols of art hitting the conscience
and arise the single conscious crowd
not the raging temporary mob
new sprouts of generation rise up
through the barren land
and art forms inherently provide
what people need dragging from
the oblivion of what people want?
as bright illusion of illumination
is smoldered through enlightening
darkness as indifference transforms
into glowing luminous flowers of empathy
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
You find patterns
in everything
and I am just beginning to notice this about you.
You watch documentaries,
and tell me all about them.
One was about
a nanny turned photographer
capturing strangers
mid-conversation-
I like your summaries
better than the stories themselves.
Someday, you, too
will take great photographs
and the world will know your name
before you're deceased.
I'm sure of it.
We walked through a field of glowing grass,
and you tried to touch each blade.
It began to rain,
I wiped a stray droplet onto your nose
and kissed your eyelids.
You laughed at me,
tried to annoy me,
hold my hand in different ways,
push me
off the sidewalk-
I stepped in dog ****
but you insisted
it was human...
I listened to you spin your story
and was reminded of how lovely
it is to peer inside your mind-
My glasses broke tonight
and yet I haven't seen this clearly
in what feels like forever.
I'll tell you "let's do this,"
this time, without any liquor
if it means I'll prove my devotion
to you
and this time
we have together.
I don't care what you call me,
or who knows I exist,
as long as you keep kissing me
with as much electricity
as I felt when I first met you.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 2:06 AM UTC
I’m the sort of girl who drinks tequila out of coffee cups
and wears really skimpy dresses
and goes out partying all night
and kisses random boys in the dark
But I’m also the kind of girl who wears her hair in a messy bun
and reads Jane Austen when it rains
and enjoys watching documentaries with my cat
But I’m also the kind of girl who likes slamming beers
and putting on team colors
and cussing at the top of my lungs at sporting events
But I'm also a *** who sleeps until noon
and eats cold pizza because I don't wanna cook
and contemplates what life would be like if I were dead
But I'm not fitting in your boxes
And you hate that
And it confuses you
And I like it
Girls aren't one thing
Or another.
We're not the sun
And the stars.
And we're not the **** of the earth.
I'm not Alpha and Omega
I'm not Fire and Ice
I'm not Beauty and Grace.
I'm me
And she's her.
And we're not the same.
I can chug a beer while reading Frost
Or contemplate the meaning of life at a hockey game
I can be
Party Girl
Sloppy Drunk
Thoughtful Bookworm
*Crazy ******
All of the above.
Or none.
I'm me.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
My God, he could never understand why she watched so many music documentaries, listened to so many eclectic songs, so many symphonies and just be flooded with emotions. He never got it. He never got her. He got bits and pieces of her, yet the rest was a mystery. She was his paradox. He'd sit and watch her get lost in a sonata, a Van Halen guitar solo, or simply a musician along Music Row. He never could understand how she did it. How, even though she was so different and foreign, that she could feel so much like home to him. So close to what he needed forever. She was his beautiful, mysterious, paradox.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
My past is this landscape of places that I’ve only ever seen in documentaries;
It can’t exist but somehow it must.
Your eyes are these temples built high that have fallen into sandy desecration;
Though once worshiped, they have not stood the test of time.
I was once able to say you were my world.
I miss being so simple and wrong.
It was easier.
Back then.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:25 AM UTC
I spent the rest of my day
Watching documentaries on the wolf packs of Yellowstone
And it's funny the capacity the beautiful creatures love
Howling when their leader dies for hours,
Playing like your pet dog plays with you
Defending each other till the death
It opened my eyes to how similar they are to us
Labeled as savage pests, but emotions of human
Amazing how this living breathing soul
Was shot cold in the end by a hunter for fun
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Outside a church a girl with permanent
mine deep scratches on her face
silently sells me matches-I light a match
and through the round church window
I see a crucifix propping Gods eye open-
the earth his spinning eye-the cross and eye
bridging time-humanity's leap into a new religious
paradigm; cross and earth meet, man's divine
awareness is complete.That night I light two
matches beneath a full moon and place my
hand beneath the flames and see God the
hooded falcon and Jesus his falcon-they cannot
see the fire in the eyes of each other.
Dreams were my bird of prey as i slept-
I was drawn to a wilderness where Christ
wept nails and howled beneath a full moon.
The wind caressed my wings and his hair-
he looked into my eyes and intoned a prayer
and rain-stones came down onto the plains
and bounced off my bedroom window pane
waking me-in the mirror I could still see the
figure of Christ preserved within my eyes.
I watched the TV and Jesus witnessed history
in documentaries. Jesus returned in a dream,
watched the earth in two streams and altered
its history- ended poverty and war, then drank
from the waters. After waking, this was replayed
in my eyes- Jesus they would vaguely recognize
and in return he didn't accept his reflection
in the waters of the streams.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 4:18 AM UTC
If this is all there is
If everything I've seen so far in life
Is all there is to live,
And you are never ever coming back
Then let me be happy with it.
Because I so desperately want to be happy.
Let me see every new new day like
A mother sees her child, eyes open wide
Staring at something I had a hand in making
That could just as easily go wrong as it could right.
Let me hear every seven AM wake up call as
The bells of St Peters to the ear of a choir boy
Calling me to worship with unquestionable faith.
Let me eat every burnt slice of toast like
A convicted criminal ensconced in solitary
Devours his last meal on death row.
Let me feel laughter as something other,
Than just the vibration of vocal chords.
Let me always speak with the conviction
Of a dreamer, a believer, an activist
Shouting every syllable
From the pinnacle of an overturned soapbox
And treating every street corner like a stage.
Let me stop trying to predict rain
And accept that if there are going to be downpours
There are certain seeds I need to sow.
Let me stop watching the television screen
As though all of life's mysteries
Can be answered by documentaries.
And that I can finally tune in, by connecting with fictional shows.
Let me see wonder
Because for a long time now I've been dreaming in colour
Its real life that seems trapped in monochrome.
If this is all there is
If everything I've lived in life has taken all I have to give
And you are never ever coming back.
Then lets get it over with.
Because I so desperately want this to be over.
Let me breathe in smoke for the rest of my days
Until tar spills from my lungs, to my heart
And burns my capillaries with that nicotine flame
Let me make heartbreak an art.
Because it reminds me of you
And I don't deserve any better.
Let me walk like I'm walking on eggshells
How I always used to do for you.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
come in multitudes
come in boots, pulled up, strapped
come with hairnets, bowlers, beers
come with husbands and mothers
the starlets come, the celebrities
the politicians and adversaries
bring your conflicts
bring your problems
stoners, bring your insights
bring philosophies and religions
bring visions, or lack thereof
bring weekdays and weeknights
bring the sofa
bring reality shows or documentaries
bring the series
and bring the cat
but come
with quirks and queers,
with stubbornness with anger
with broken glasses and fists
with fits of rage, with opinions
statements, facts, figures, conspiracies
bring every one of these, but come
with your broken hearts and talents
or genius, or with yesterday’s news
with the crosswords and comics
or the convicts or the cartoons
- hell, we’ve got more than enough room
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
i’ve never believed in ghosts
but no matter where i go
your memories haunt my every thought
i see your every move anywhere i am
now that you’re gone
i cant help but think about
all those old paranormal documentaries
“the spirit follows you”
but
maybe i am following you
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
To the one who loves her next,
She doesn’t believe in killing things. So next time you want to squish a spider and she yells in refusal, don’t tell her she’s overreacting. Let her pick it up and release it outside peacefully. Otherwise, she’ll feel guilty for hours.
She is a total textbook introvert. She won’t reply for hours and sometimes you won’t see her for a week. You might take this personally. Don’t. She’s simply taking care of herself and she’ll tell you how much she missed you while she was away (most likely at 3 am).
She won’t get very jealous. But don’t take this as a sign of not caring. She does, she just respects people’s space and trusts you. However, don’t break this trust or you will never regain it back.
On a related note, make sure you trust her too. Most of her friends are guys that she will want to hangout with, sometimes without you there. Do not act suspicious or controlling, this is how you will lose her. No one comes before her friends. (Except her dog).
She is the most independent woman I know. But this doesn’t mean she won’t want affection. Let her know you love her. Kiss her forehead. Write her letters, cute notes, and texts. She will notice and will keep all of them in a box specifically designated for you. At this point you should know you’re special to her.
Remember the way she takes her coffee and go out to coffee shops together every now and then. She enjoys the atmosphere and finds it relaxing.
When she’s having an anxiety attack, wrap her up in your arms and rub her back. Tell her she’s safe and remind her that she has medication if she needs it.
Go on adventures with her. Anywhere and everywhere. Her craving for exploration is high, and needs someone willing to tag along. Or even better, show her new places she hasn’t been to. It’s something she will never forget.
Watch documentaries with her, and read her favorite books. It’s a great way to understand her better, because words and feelings aren’t her forte.
If you cannot do these things, let someone else. That girl deserves the world. She will love you with all she’s got. Please give her the same.
Give her your all and she’ll return the favor. You will never have to ask the universe for anything ever again.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
Not what you think,
The shrinks, the drugs
Wore out, me and them,
Now we just exchange regards,
Used crying towels
All agreed,
So much the better
For me and the State
Nobody's fault,
These fault lines,
Run so ******* deep,
From California to New Caledonia
Where I've gone to hide from
Lunacies, visionaries, one pill cures-all-defeats
Laugh tracks and reruns,
Death defying boring English documentaries
On gardening and milking cows,
Video cassettes, lunettes
The Internet,
Might as well do it almost all
The conclusion reached,
Strained from an armada of words,
Tankers, tugs, cruise tours,
Man o' Wars,
Totals cannot be reach,
Too many words,
Saying the same but different,
Saying the sane but different,
Saying you sunk to the bottom,
only up, the only autoroute
Almost laughable,
Heal thyself,
The End,
So here I am
Twixt any two continents,
A continental on a rock island
Far from mon pays natal,
Here, I am unnoticed
Midst the stones of Noumea,
Talking to myself, one last time,
Hoping for kind words en Anglais ,
Pourquoi pas?
This then the conclusion,
Strained from a life diluted,
Writing Poetry in English,
Looking for just a few-more words,
Kind, gentil, let me try this
Genre,
Why not?
Heal Thyself
The conclusion, strained
March 2014
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
is hidden in the lungs of a lover
who lost himself
in the war of keeping his love;
in his tears yet to stream his cheeks,
over the carcass of the only dead soldier
that is his own heart.
And the coldest, most macabre ******
lies between the partition of the lips
of the one who left-- willingly.
No good-byes.
No apologies.
Just plain frigid fingers
that smell like heartbreak.
This is the epic unwritten in history,
unseen in televised documentaries;
partly because of its gruesome morbidity,
and partly of its awful simplicity.
A traceless killing:
no blood,
no stains,
no weapons,
just lies.
Seamless all from the start--
just one mangled heart.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
My best friends laugh.
A beautiful voice on lyrics I aspire to create.
Music, and it's culture.
That new book smell.
When your handwriting just looks good.
Blue-green and light pink, unite.
Candles.
Writing something you're proud of.
My boyfriend's kiss.
Feeling the work-out you did two days ago.
Using ridiculous slang; when someone speaks it back to you.
Documentaries.
The French language.
Conspiracy theories.
Being more than just another sheep.
Growing up.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC
whenever my mother finds a new hobby,
she becomes Obsessed with it.
Infatuated.
it’s an Overwhelming, Consuming,
Obsession.
but after a while,
After she has mastered her craft,
or achieved excellence in whatever she started,
the passion was gone as quickly as it came.
when I was Five,
I would watch my mother dance,
from the sofa.
tango, salsa, fox trot, waltz.
she would spin around our living room floor,
swept up in her own world,
Oblivious.
when she decided her feet were too tired,
she worked with her hands.
exotic foods no seven year old would eat
she made in bulk. indian food for the next week.
I was very skinny when I was Seven.
when I was Eight,
cooking was soon replaced with wildlife.
our house was filled with animal magazines,
tigers, birds, frogs, fish,
found their way into my mother’s heart.
my mother spent her weekends in the everglades.
then somehow,
documentaries on salmon soon became horror films,
and for a year, I couldn’t sleep at night.
the films turned into books,
and for days, she buried her nose in their spines,
held their backs gently like she was holding a child.
in the Seventh grade,
my mother couldn’t stop running.
running at speeds no Thirteen year old could keep in pace with,
I began to wonder if she enjoyed running, or running away.
panting and out of breath,
I realized I couldn’t catch up.
running wasn’t fast enough for her,
so bikes became involved.
her cycling was about as fast as her cycles of interest.
with her new body, my mother soon rediscovered clothes
in Eighth grade, I watched my mother have her midlife crisis,
piles of clothes, new with tags, spilled out of shopping bags.
her closet busting with clothes I could have,
should have,
worn.
the year after that,
my mother must have rode that macy’s escalator to heaven,
because she found Jesus.
she never really practiced what she preached.
then, christianity turned into world history in general,
which turned into soap operas,
which turned into the computer,
which turned into baking cakes.
now, the icing has been replaced with fertilizer
right now, my mother enjoys gardening.
she spends hours watering her flowers
literally watching the grass grow.
right now, I am Eighteen,
and I can’t help but to wonder,
was I the First?
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
I like sitting here.
I like wondering off,
Into the abyss.
I like documentaries.
Looking into other peoples' lives.
Seeing their problems,
Their scars.
It makes me forget of my own.
I dont know how
to deal with the good.
Ive been going through the bad
Day in,
Day out.
I got used to crying.
So to my surprise,
I got what I wanted.
I felt undeserving.
Was I dreaming?
I might as well been.
I ignored all other aspects of my life.
Because being loved,
Is the best feeling in the world.
It feels weird even typing it.
I feel that if i say it,
That it will be taken away,
Just as quickly.
I wanna return the love,
Because I have it.
I just am guarded too.
I don't want him to figure me out.
If he does,
When he does
...
He'll be gone.
Im not sure why he's here.
Does he like me?
All of me?
Ive let myself slip through the cracks,
And not I've made my way,
Back to the bottom.
Looking at myself in the mirror,
Wiping away the tear.
Im flooded with disappointment.
Im happy with myself.
But others aren't.
They will make false assumptions.
But I could just say
"You don't need them,
Who cares"
But...
I need him.
Ive wrote all these poems.
All about him.
But now,
Im scared.
What will
He think?
But you know what,
Here's what i think,
"Im too fat,
And your too skinny.
We're not too smart,
But we look so pretty,
Sittin' by the fire,
Talkin' the night away."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
Briefly entranced
by a swish of hips
as they sashay past a doorman,
he takes a breath, approaches
and asks to get through.
"Sorry sir," the tall man says,
"your purchasing record suggests
"that you dislike jazz.
"I think you'd better move along."
Of course, of course,
what was he thinking?
A narrow escape, that.
And on home through the empty streets he goes,
Untroubled by the wide wild sounds,
the horns and pianos,
the reckless freeform blast and chatter
that might ruthlessly have smashed through
his carefully constructed identity.
Safe at home,
his television allows him to watch
a comedy he has seen thirteen times before
and so must really love.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
*They say a good love story takes years to write
Mine's perfect for It's taking God centuries
Like all the masterpieces in documentaries
Though the waiting just doesn't feel right
They say time heals wounds, what heals scars
The bruises are gone but with time passage
Only the painful scars occasionally keep me in the bars
In the name of reinforcement and finding courage
They say before meeting your princes charming
You have to surrender your lips and kiss some frogs
But what if she too is out there kissing toads
Hopelessly battling to have faith, and yearning?
Why cannot we just meet on the very first page
When our hearts are still brimful with faith and are whole?
Why cannot soul mates just find each other at that age
When they are so willing to give it their all?
My love story must be so amazing even to the Author
So much so that He is probably afraid of publishers
One might think sane ladies should fall for Shakespeare and Chaucer
But guess what? Some of us are but the all time wishers
They say a good story is one that takes years to pen
So someday I'll happily move out the singles lane
Probably even the shards'll fix themselves back together
Maybe there's a story being carefully written with a frail quail Feather*
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC