"dysfunctions" poems
I tried, x
**
something I get a lot is, “you’re too young to be a feminist.”
too young to be a feminist for you’ve yet to witness a rhyme or reason to believe we lived in a patriarch-fueled
society where the erectile dysfunctions of men are paid for by health care but, God forbid a
woman seeks birth control to help herself
God forbid a woman does anything to help herself
a society where women are taught to be happy with what they can get
yet to be ashamed when they get it
a society where I grew up being taught not to trust a man for he’d hurt me but
taught to have the house clean and his dinner on the table when he got home
a society where a woman in a tank top and a pair of daisy dukes is a ***** who is asking for it”
when the same woman is what’s used to market the male population who are taught that this is the woman they deserve
a society where a woman is unworthy and ***** if she isn’t a ******
but a man is a man so long as he is “getting the hoes”
a society where women are taught to protect their innocence and their virtue
and the society where they are ostracized and ridiculed for not being ready
a society where consent is hopped, skipped, and jumped around and the so called “fact” issued by
Scott Johnson that says men can’t control their issues
a society where a woman’s womb is not her own whether she wants this baby or not
I was taught *** was shameful and wrong unless you were married
but please, give him a baby and keep him satisfied
we glorify teen pregnancies and ignore the accomplishments of women
if I’m too young to be a feminist,
then it’s quite **** sad I can point out what’s wrong in the world.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
I'm sorry that I am inadequate
I am sorry that I am absolutely confident
I'm sorry that I'm happy
I'm sorry that you're miserable more than half the time
I'm sorry that you only start loving me once you've broken my heart and I have left
I am sorry that I am not rich or possess glamorous material
I am sorry that these are the type of people that you would settle for
I am sorry that where I come from there is no ego, smallness or bigotry
or watch dogs to keep stars in check so they're humble for there is no extreme self-ansorbtion
I'm am sorry that you cannot feel and I am not there to heal once your conscience starts to breathe
I am sorry that I have failures and dysfunctions
I am sorry that you feel small and inadequate when I achieve
I am sorry that when you are angry; everyone around you must be just as angry
I am sorry for the weakness in you to hurt others because you are constantly hurting and cannot contain it
I am sorry that I am not perfect and may not be everything you have ever dreamed
I am sorry that I have to be crucified for the mistakes and faults of previous lovers
I am sorry that I don't have a *** appetite when I am feeling down and low
I am sorry for being direct and sincere
I am sorry that there are certain things that I do not feel anymore, pains that just cut the broken pieces of my heart
I am sorry that wars have turned me into a recluse and gave me no choice but to grow
I am sorry that I resonate to vibrations that radiate positive energy
I am sorry that I found solace in solitude and understanding myself
I am sorry that womankind has been scarred by men who had failed to understand the feminine energy within themselves
I am sorry that I am to blame for your emotional instabilities
I am sorry that you cannot run as fast as the best athlete
I am sorry that I cannot drive as fast as the best Nascar driver for I do not have a car
I apologize for low tolerance for ******** lies and fakeness
I am sorry for my emotional scars
I am sorry for intelligence when it cannot reach you
I am sorry that you cannot understand how wounded I am, if you did you'd stop trying to hurt me for you'd only be hurting yourself
And lastly I apologize that you lack self esteem to realize the magnanimous potential within you
but see it is self-esteem, work that you do on yourself with the support of those who serve goodness and your best interests
I am sorry that the world is filled with the filth of hell
but what the heck I cannot be sorry for searching for heaven in the circumstance.... So I'm not sorry for divinity.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
I once heard of a girl with a lack of muse,
a broken heart,
a razor,
and a noose.
Is it true that pain can make someone change?
The silence is terrifying.
It screams reality.
Eventually that girl got back on her feet.
Found a refuge in the lyrics,
an escape in the beat.
That little girl grew up.
Knew she had to change.
She threw away the razor.
Even changed her ******* name.
She climbed her way to Sydney Rain.
She wont let go of all the pain.
To keep a reminder of awful days.
To build her up to a better place.
She may still have her flaws,
hell, call them her dysfunctions.
But she built a kingdom all her own,
one she wont let crumble.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Sometimes, I pin-point things.
I break them down single handedly
causing no disruption
to your lack of observation.
This interrupts some significant
social dysfunctions that manifests me daily.
Remorse for things, what things, I have no things.
I have pieces of bizarre delusions
in which I feel I need at the time.
I don’t need these things.
They already exist in here.
Burn them.
They’re already all around me.
Taunting, specifying,
predicting my next move, next thought.
Aroused brain assumptions.
Your still there.
Not noticing.
I need my medicine.
Medication.
Things.
Pill is a noun.
Noun- Person, Place, or Thing.
Never mind that disorganized thought,
I don’t need them anyway.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 4:32 PM UTC
I listened to an ignorant man speak today, A bias, racist tirade. My ears and heart stung with each syllable of hate he uttered. Is it not sad that in a day such as ours, that persons such as these still exist?
I was incensed at the mere possibility that this fool might think that I approved of such viewpoints and prejudices. But yet, I said nothing to him, I only listened to his goings on and empty justifications as to why he felt this way.
In what light then am I left in? My silence; did it fuel his racist diatribe, Or… was he a tool so that I might use it as inspiration and yet another insight to write this small but nevertheless important piece?
The tools that come to hand come in many different forms. Our inspirations, motivations come from those areas that most times we abhor. Our outrage fuels us to action, I often wonder after such experiences, if not for them then what would I write about?
Oh yes, the Golden field’s of Autumn evenings, the lover’s hand across my chest and brow. The kindness of my fellow man, and his sacrifice. These reflections of pure light.
However, there are moments when one must write of the darkness to rid themselves of it.
Do I justify the actions of an ignorant lout who speaks hate and distrust? Never, But I find myself at an impasse of conscience understanding, Is this hateful thing the vehicle through these words of its own destruction?
Perhaps an inflicted death blow wielded by a poor poet’s pen, to envision a time when thoughts such as these do not exist? What then will the poets write of, what then will be the inspiration, Is it a sin to write of these things? My fear of perpetuating the cause of this discourse weighs heavily upon me.
Is the poet, the writer, addicted to these heartaches and dysfunctions of his fellow man,
No I think not, We are witnesses to the coming of age of this world. In our lifetimes we will walk but a short mile in it; and while here I for one will share such things.
I will battle these questions in my own time and pray for peaceful tongues and cleansed hearts. Cleansed of prejudice and hate.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
My marginal dysfunctions like a panther saunter gliding me out to peripheries edge.
We won't comment on loose banter, someone says.
My mind circles the time as the crow flies,
too disturbed for reentry, tweets the parakeet.
Phase out with allegiance to no one,
Phase back in with desperate facade.
I am blank, bleak and broken.
Well...that's just the token to get us back in ...the Dahlia wasn't always black to begin with you know, so many colors remain to absorb our sorrow.
So lost, forgotten and frail...
a ghastly scene so serene and forsaken.
Do not fret my fellow faire, we are ghosts of crimson lore, pathos to the people...morose...together on the edge of forever.
Interlacing fingers, we stand then walk the plank of insanity...who will hold my hand??
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
*** is ***
a hint of what's to come
celebration of
emotional dysfunctions
****** disconnect
convoluted nonsense
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
If I attempted to expose
My many dysfunctions
With words that simply rhymed
My heart would surely ache
As I committed to relate
The faults in my weary mind
What I'm really trying to say
Between these lines is where I fade
And so I survive another day!
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 6:45 AM UTC
I
This is what I do when I can’t sleep.
Write my hate notes while others dream deep.
I draw shapes of plight with my pen
And I’m dysfunction and I’m all dark.
II
I can’t watch my rind wringed anymore.
Between bone and skin
Is a hole where my soul once flowed.
Now floored.
III
Beat back: broken back:
The stain of us.
The vacuum of us.
The timely death of us.
I draw shapes of plight with my pen
dreaming dysfunctions and all dark.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
Lost in the shadows
Are the building blocks
Of the dark poets
Pre-operational
Innocence
Trying to fit in
But the dysfunctions
Left wounds
And walls within
The ignorance of societies
Left its mark
Condemning
Then branding
The misguided heart
Subconscious reaction
Ideologies that captivate
And disturb the measure
Of normal
Thus
The Dark Poet
Was born...
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
It’s All About Family
A rush to change into trousers and shirt
Discarding pajamas and morning quiet
And a half-eaten breakfast burrito -
Dear God, the relatives are here again
They never ‘phone; like mayflies they appear
First peeking through the windows, and only then
Ringing the doorbell, breathless with gossip
And detailing their medical dysfunctions
They seem to settle in for the summer
While one’s soul longs for a burrito lost
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
She’s dancing and spinning in circles
Her arms open wide
The joy of life shining from her eyes
Her mommy and daddy love her so good
All her aspects so well understood
No dysfunctions, no issues
No wars to be won
Just beauty and perfection
And love by the tons
Unfortunately it’s only an illusion
And the truth is very sad
Her mother’s a low-down ******
She had *** with her dad
She may be coming she may be going
She’s not really sure
Her life is been moving so **** quickly
That her memories are a blur...
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
after changing my drinking regime i realised i moved to a different planet... it's days are ~36 hours long, they include an entire night and two halves of two days.
this poem was to be a brief review of a
sample of a book,
the melancholic mystifying melancholy
as something mysterious,
not a noumenon in sight,
just the same bland phenomenon on
repeat, always in the modern age
with urban environments instead
of attacking old men who accomplished
much, instead attacking youth...
it's when he mentioned reading much
of Foucault's madness and civilisation,
much?! what's much? a lot, most of it...
so it doesn't exactly mean all of it,
and this is a person studying for an MA
(masters in arts)... oh let me tell you,
melancholy in youth spreads like
an Australian bush fire, in youth depression
is actually contagious, a virus of some sort,
old farts don't bother each other in
the same way, moulding each other...
they complain about bad knees,
aches and pains and erectile dysfunctions...
but it's a sad comedy, it's not exactly
a tragedy.. they're laughing with each
other: WE MADE IT! youth can't say
the same, old age used to contain the virus
of depression en masse, it spread
naturally, in varying degrees, but depression
in youth is like A.I.D.S. or something,
talking my old grandfather for long periods
at a time i too thought about jumping
off the roof... yet this is given the comforts
of post-communist retirement whereby
he was comfortable. i too read all of
Foucault, one picking up **** from a dealer
who worked in a hospital and was supplying
lean ***** to rich kids doping...
book in hand, he was sitting on his sofa
playing a computer game, we were both at
the same uni, he was there for business reasons
studying oriental & african studies...
but actually there on business...
he saw me with the book and just said:
oh man, heavy going, yeah? see... i should
write something more on the subject matter,
but there's already a bunch of coalminers
digging in my conscience whether i start apply
self-censorship to the whole debate, accusing
myself of the Orwellian thought-crime;
the great suppressors of vocabulary, who
probably speak fluent regional slang better
standard trans-regional English.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
Quiet is all I need.
Desiring silence as the critics improvise
their own violins.
The philosophers tune their cello's.
The writers prepare the songs.
All the song says is the truth of where I stand in life.
Praying I'll be ok tomorrow.
How I stand in front of the cold audience
whom have the obligation of peaceful listening.
Many who choose to not open their ears to another sound
will only be alone playing their guitars.
I want the audience to be silent for me.
Learning as they whisper bewildered and stunned.
There are no strings attached.
How the sound of one's insecurity dysfunctions another's quality tune.
Know we are to hear but don't have to do a cover.
Instrumental choice,
one's vision and dream.
Hear me sing,
then tune your cello's, guitars, and violins.
We'll take a chance on our stances in life.
Hear each other and play together.
For in the slightest way,
our beliefs,
are different,
though the sound,
can blend.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
Open your mind and think..
Don't allow our inherent dysfunctions to create disconnections
Cant you see?
Just like you and me
We are the victims of our Fathers; and so are they
The long line of social inculcation - when did this start?
For centuries we made believe that we are the greatest of all species
Unique, intelligent and special in its own way
We have forgotten
We have lost the idea that we are all humans
Sharing the same planet with everybody else
We have let greed stain our minds
Our wisdom - tainted with desires
Bernays knew it, ****** knew, Gandhi knew
Some used this advance to manipulate
and some to emancipate
So think!
Don't let your desire father your manipulation
Don't let your ignorance nurture your fear
Think...
That's what made you special
That's what made you human
You have a mind which may not understand everything - which it should be
But think. Explore
Our world is as broken as it is
But it will heal
I may not live to see it
But I have lived a life with the idea to change it
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Tinkering hands
Lead to restless minds,
Always seeking
What they might find,
In systems running
Perfectly well,
Please, act with caution,
Results may repel.
Leave alone what
Smoothly flows;
If working gears
Continue to go,
For in the quest
To meddle away,
We sometimes cause
More disarray.
Wisdom lies
In knowing when
To step aside,
To leave again.
For changes made
Without true need
Can plant dysfunctions
Stubborn seed.
If it works,
Then let it be,
Sometimes that's
The wisest plea!
Not all that’s old
Needs to be renewed;
Leave it alone
To see itself through.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 10:41 PM UTC
We are newly discovered obsidian daggers
Covered in obscene diamonds
We had a great time in our scabbards
Until your archaeologists came and found us
We are accents of rhythm
Extracted from a linguists’ worst nightmare
We are apparently humid if not quite human
Ruminating on our naked dysfunctions
We are content to being secret agents
Masters of arguments in surreptitious suspense
We are sweat and salt upon naked backs
That attract you like the golden hues of slumber
The ochre of the jungle is crisper than a hundred dollar bill
Life-force fueled by something new and leguminous
Quetzals bluer than a waterfall or the sky above an igloo
I chased you to the bottom of a cup of coffee
To overcome the fear of drowning in a melancholy mood
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 12:11 PM UTC
I shy away
in clouds of self-reflection
that cast shadows over
human nature's clarity.
Reversing a cocoon
my fragile organs, exposed- hang
To display their veiny
functions and dysfunctions.
Transfixed on a cellular level
I am complicated. I am mechanical.
Repeat routines and manage my capital.
Resistance faces dreams that are radical.
Auto-immune to my own feelings
or thoughts- I reject myself.
And neglect the wonder of
just being alive.
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC