"edit" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
Substituting communication
for mere contact.
Self image produced with every shared post.
Basing your worth
on how many tap their finger.
When people become numbers
and reading someone's tweets
is enough to count as friendship
Convincing ourselves that life should have an edit option
Have we forgotten the tangible world?
real and uncut
above the square illusions residing in our hands
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
this isn’t going to make sense
cause it’s not supposed to
and if I’m being honest
this isn’t for you
it’s not even for me
I’m stuck
I’m trapped
I’m lost
I’m every other word that describes people who feel at a dead end
I’m typing on a ****** phone
That’s connected to a ****** connection
That could possibly be a metaphor for my life
I’m writing
Because I don’t know what else to do
I’m writing
Cause that’s what they told me to do
But they also told me that what I think isn’t always true
That I’m special and I just don’t see it
But that’s the thing
I don’t see it
And if I don’t see it then why should it matter if anyone else does
And if I’m thinking something why should it matter if it’s true
What matters is that it’s in my head
What matters is that it’s always there
But here I am
Stuck in the same place
Back to square one
No progress made
The same questions, whether true or not
Will I amount to anything?
Do I really help?
Am I really worthwhile?
Do you actually care?
I see these people
When I’m online
They smile and post
They edit and pose
I can’t help but wonder
Do you really smile, or do you just do it to look happy like me?
Do you really feel happy, or are you trying to lie like me?
Do you understand what I feel?
Or is it just me?
I’m not trying to be selfish
I don’t want a lot
I just want to be happy
And I want others to be happy with me
But neither is happening
So instead there’s a poem
That doesn’t even ryhme
That makes no sense
I’ll try harder
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 3:18 AM UTC
Education is currently being used as a weapon
to arm the educated to defend the system.
Question the system.
Go out there and equip yourself for the right belief.
Be a dreamer. The dream is beautiful.
The problem with dreams is that you don’t know
the dream has turned into a nightmare until you wake up.
Are you awake? Be awake.
The problem with being awake; we need to rest.
Lucidly dream. Be lucid.
The problem with being lucid; you’re lucid.
There was a dream not long ago. The dream was beautiful.
We liked the dream, the dream became ours and we slept.
Slowly we all grew tired.
Those that did not need to sleep,
those that did not like our dream,
we treated like children.
We know that we need to rest and we were tired. We left our children to starve.
We forced others to sleep and so, we forced our children to sleep.
Even in our sleep, we forced others to sleep.
And so the big dream grew.
It became nightmare.
We all dream. Be aware of others dreams. Be aware of others while we sleep.
Be aware of those that sleep while we awaken.
When you wake and see your siblings rest no longer.
That their dream, once ours, has turned to terror.
The problem with dreams…
We force our children to sleep.
Is this bad? Always question. Should we force them to wake?
Force can create. Force can destroy.
The problem with being awake, when we know our brothers and sisters
sweat in there nightmares; we have a choice.
That is not a choice to wake them or not. To hope for the best.
That the nightmare will end and the dream will return.
A dream that has travelled
through the terrors of our minds
will not return the same.
Would you like the red pill or the blue pill?
Is there good and bad? Force can create and destroy.
Be mindful of how you wake.
Be lucid of how you force others to wake.
Tea or coffee; a cigarette; some breakfast; some fear?
Use balance.
We are all unique.
I have a personal story. As I wrote this, typos occurred in the original edit.
The technology, ‘swipe’ was used. I meant to spell unique and unite was spelt.
Personal became powerful and with turned to WE.
Is there a reason ‘i’ should always be capitalized?
‘i’ wish to be mindful of my readers. ‘i’ want to stay true to them.
We that can read are the readers. ‘i’ am the reader.
When I isn’t capitalized I began to feel more comfortable with using it,
if i gave it arms; ‘i’.
And when I typed to explain that,
I went to preferring if isn’t typing out ‘and then i and then ‘, to just type two of them;
ii.
We don’t want to be alone.
There’s no I in teamwork but
there is and I in kind.
I is complicated. Be you.
Find your voice. Have a voice and be aware.
Others have a voice.
What would happen if we all respected each other’s voice?
What would happen if we all had the same voice?
That was the beauty of the dream.
The dream is travelling through nightmare
and is slowly returning.
It has changed.
Unite our uniqueness’s.
Do you eat fast food? I love it. It is a dream… Do I eat it all the time, I hope not.
Ken Robinson is a good man to ask. Consider food for the mind.
There are beliefs out there. There’s a belief out there that our world is ******
Forgive the language. Understand it.
I wanted to say, ‘that our world is doomed; eternally ****** to be destroyed’ and that scared me. **** There will always be nightmares, disaster and destruction.
What is an ‘aster’? Curious.
When did we chose to destroy; each other?
Could we create; each other?
There’s a belief out there for that one too.
Are you awake, yet?
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 9:06 AM UTC
Chant that you are brave,
Even as your body begins to quake;
Exclaim that you need not be saved,
Endeavor to alter your own fate.
Affirmations deserve more credit;
Say anything enough and you'll believe.
It's wholly possible to edit,
A new response to fear needs to be conceived.
Therapy is not at my beck and call,
But willpower will help me revise,
Prevent me from facing a dastardly fall,
A pivoting, terminating demise.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
Erase my face from your page
Edit me out of the life you portray
But the pictures of you left
Baby I took them
I watched your life up close
Sat on the front row
Never thought I'd just be
Your photographer
I used to be the spark
I used to steal your heart
You were a flash so bright
When life got dark
I used to be your moon
Your sunset too
Would've spent my life
Making you see how I see you
Now my only role
Now my only role
Now my only role
Was your photographer
Aug 7, 2020
Aug 7, 2020 at 2:02 PM UTC
i am
aware of the air
enabling each step
and counting each breath
with the effort it takes to exhale
i could almost just sit down at the side of the road instead
but i won't
because i am
seeking out new people
new faces, new mouths
to give me new words
aware of the air
that falls from their lips
and catching the shapes, each lovely
small part of them
for my pocket
and i'll take these out later
edit the context
to create a compliment
to make me smile
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,
Blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of “Oh, look how beautiful the red is”
(everyone always says red is my color).
Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.
Depression is accepting ruin in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.
It is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the torment like a gift because you’ve earned it.
Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking because
Depression is tying yourself together with the severed nerves in your heart;
It is rope, it is ribbon, it is thread, it is DNA;
It is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear,
And depression is sadness being a privilege you’re too pathetic to have.
It is a hug, a freezing touch, a reminder that
Depression is being birthed a lie.
And it is shutting yourself behind that wooden doorway
And hearing your family laugh like cackling hyenas,
Eating at your self esteem like softened prey
And learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love because
Depression is family.
It is an unfurnished home,
An empty frame,
A foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet,
you when life hasn't been broken in yet,
Seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with grins reaching their eyes while yours can’t, and wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”
Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.
It is the note masked inside of a poem,
Envisioning pills as if they were peace,
Depression is the last stanza,
It is the audience,
It is this microphone,
It is me standing in a room full of strangers
And for the first time finally feeling like I'm being heard.
Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway that keeps pounding, possessive, ****** but when you open the door out of anger and shout “I’M SCARED” to thin air, your voice comes out as a whisper.
And silently, the figure replies;
“I know your favorite color.”
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
While I don't suffer, or suffer from
Normal, eurocentrism, northern malaise,
Nor, academia, a blood disease,
I do mind manners in which doings
And not doings are done or aren't,
As it brings life and light to them,
Or it doesn't, for those most attached
To living or dying are most closely death.
This while acid rain from your closed eye
And an acre of rainforest falls each second.
Thus Earth's tears bleed for all you see is gray.
As machinations of travailing winds,
Miraging, veil, mirror narcissistic nihlistic
False-ego as self, do "..we(e),.." evince to be?
A republican chides, "put another poet
On the barbie", his idea of conservation.
Prump has had his exec. branch criminally:
Edit the official video and script of his
Helsinki news conference where tutin was asked,
"Did you help prump become president and did you
Have your gov't do the same", with tutin's answers,
"Yes I did, yes, I did..." + premeditatedly separate
Latino families at the border to torture them,
Dictate that "if they want to see their kids again
They have to sign away their rights and leave".
He just said, "don't believe what you hear, see",
Almost a quote from Orwell's '1984', in which
Is written, "this dictate of the gov't was most
Important of all, don't believe what your ears
Hear or your eyes see". Since altright universe
Invaders were installed in the Blackhouse we've
Known things will only get worse, what other
Reason could his "military parade in 11-18" be for
Except military rule, will the American daymare end?
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:13 AM UTC
A thought sometimes forms
I live too much
yet I do too little.
Woken at strange hours,
never asleep.
Rapt in raps
or wrapped in riddles
Chained to links
or hammered to handle
stubbed to bone
Mens et
Manus
There is time yet, I swear
To flourish
To dream
To make
To be
To do
To create
Will I?
We'll see
There's time yet to tell
Be yourself, they say
The best you you can be
But once more— Will I have time
To edit
I live less
I do less
Portfolio: empty
or at least, locked away.
Excitement too.
Blank slate
Blank palette
Is there any paint?
Can I truly make
excitement saturate?
Will I be able to place
value as I see fit?
Can the world be hewn slimmer, slicker
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
Tis daft I think, to amuse such a notion
But not necessarily so daft to be wrong
Emerson called it misunderstood,
Shaw found it unreasonable
But ay, theres the rub
That bed once made, must be lain in and
all dreams which might be had are alone not enough
Bloom effects don't work outside the movies.
Ideas are trash, these are recession times
Deflations made them a farthing a dozen
Started 10.03.11
Unfinished
D.B. Guy
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
Are you sound of mind?
Addicted to dandelions
like the ocean is to ice.
Wait outside the blood bank,
learn how to write dialogue
and make saccharin spines.
My journal is a tangle of spines,
keep an open mind
help me box up my ****** dialogue.
I’ve always been a fan of dandelions
etching paths along the river bank,
streams within the winter ice.
Buckets of camphor ice
relax the notches in spines
as we wait in line at the food bank.
Thoughts of jawbones on my mind,
the taste of dandelions
and organized pre-scripted dialogue.
Backhanded blue dialogue,
counting the vanilla crystals of ice
blowing the smell of cinnamon into floating dandelions.
My hands handle happiness spines
with the peace of mind
of money in the piggy bank.
Let's rob a bank
shooting quiet malleable dialogue
through an altered state of mind.
Your ribs are two sheets of ice
ivy wrapping around our intertwined spines
crumbly blowing breaths of dandelions.
Second hand dandelions
build up in the river bank
muddy trenches around spines
whisper outspoken blue green dialogue.
Three pounds of dry ice,
warm water vapour at the back of my mind
Store buy your dandelions, bear in mind
that the West Bank is covered in ice
and that spines speak their own muted dialogue.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
If I had to give my son advice,
To, on his little life, shed light:
I'd say don't do drugs, and if you do.
Do Class C in the mornings,
And Class A's at night.
If you're gonna do it, do it right.
If I had to give my son advice,
To save his little heart from pain:
I'd say never love at a distance;
Your heart will succumb to a lonely bind.
For words, are far too nervous,
and probably won't get there on time.
If I had to give my son advice,
So his smile remains a genuine jewel,
I'd say be sure to marry a writer.
Smile as much as you possibly can,
And if they feel it worth defending
They will rewrite, and edit out your problems,
And give you a happy ending.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
The hour is slim!
This is the tangled time,
the time that heavy
with want
becomes the jaws
for open thighs.
Her tasty flesh renders
the cleft of wet truth.
Persephone can slake,
can shatter my ache,
when,
enthralled against
the serpent earth
with
legs knotted,
we
lay tangled in ancient ruin.
re-edit
words Tommy Carroll
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
Have you considered being a *** worker?
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than associating with your own ribcage.
You're an actress
no script, just a character summary.
Limp, age 12, non-verbal marionette.
*Snaps her strings when forced to dance.
Clings to the ceiling tiles, like the shadows she hallucinates.
Let's the puppet fall numb under strangers.
Ragdoll to be used for kindling.*
When you play your part
You'll inherit enough money to afford a studio apartment
in Washington, or Las Vegas; anywhere with men paid large enough salary to afford your vacant body,
three phone plans,
a hotel room for you to stay awake in
Listening to dull thuds against your wrongfully warm corpse
Invited hoping the stinging could form tendons
adhere together like rubber bands
Snap you back into your skin.
You cling helpless to the ceiling tiles
Watch the ragdoll make mistakes.
*"Have you considered being a *** worker?"*
A homeless woman asked me,
*"Unoccupied bodies should start charging rent.
Let a man who can afford it pay for utilities.
You might be homeless
but you won't be wasted space".*
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
Why are librarians always mean?
They act like they are the queen
of the library scene
They are in charge, that is true
they make that clear when shushing you
if only they actually knew
people only go to the library to pass through
they ***** and fuss all day
and treat children like their prey
they all turn into a cliche
if only there was another way
they are lonely crotchety old ladies
who took their dreams and turned them into maybes
some of them had wished to write
or edit famous books into the night
but alas here they are in old schools
screamin' and yellin' all day about the rules
I think that's probably why
they take pleasure in making children cry
Forever they'll sit at their desk
growing in old age grotesque
when you see a librarian make sure to scurry
unless you want to feel her wrath and fury
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
The typical 2 a.m. poem is messy
because middle of the night thoughts have no structure
The typical 2 a.m. poem is deep
because darkness is perfect for existentialism
The typical 2 a.m. poem is raw
because it's hard to edit when you're tired
This 2 a.m. poem is just another 2 a.m. poem
desperately trying to be unique
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
When I look at you,
I see someone I adore
Someone who is beautiful, sweet, and kind
The imperfections I do not mind
When I look at you,
I see you are fading away
Into a state of decay
And yet still beautiful and sweet
But fighting something you cannot defeat
When I look at you,
I see someone who has been hurt from the beginning
And someone who's love of life is dwindling
I don't care, I will be there
Through thick and thin
I will be there to lift up your chin
I am going to be there for you
There are things I wish you knew
When I look at you,
I see someone I love
I will be there;
Until you can fly free like a dove
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Byron wants me to invite all my friends on HP to a pig roast. Rest assured, when Byron has a pig roast fun is surely to be expected. Here's his invitation.
You're invited to my pig roast.
I told him he'd have to do better, that he's talking to a collection of rhymers, wordsmiths, and gesticulating anthropomorphics. He had no idea what the **** I just said, but he did do an edit.
Here's his edit.
You're Invited to My Pig Roast
Your toad on the road
Only squats, never stands,
Or sits 'til he splits
Between the treads of your van.
Your mouse in the house,
If it isn't found out,
Drops pellets in pots,
'Til snap, then it stops.
Your bird on the wire
Sweetly sings then lets fire;
And a cat in a hat
Is cute, but that's that.
Your horse from the stable
Won't be served from your table;
And the deer by the brook,
Well, too much the Bambi to cook.
Yes a bear in the wood
Indeed craps where it should;
He's best left alone
While your meat's on your bone.
Then there is the PIG.
A ruddy pink porker,
Intelligent and clean,
An innocuous oinker.
It does nothing that's heinous,
And yes, it should shame us,
As it lies silently smiling
With a spit up its ****
Please bring your own lawnchair, ***** and women.
The pig's on me.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
JB was on my mind
Too many times
Everything he ever talked about
Became my walk my talk
My singing and shouts
I knew from the start that it would have an end.
I can't ever seem to get used to these new beginnings.
I fell into manipulation
I'm recovering
Trying and recycling...
Recovering
My old and new beliefs
The old and new me
Trying to become
What I've always
Been
Seeker of light
Prayer of health
Child of God
Teacher
People pleaser
_____
He she won't be ANY GOD TO ME
I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING ANYMORE
HELP ME
LORD HELP ME
LORD HELP ME
Father Father help me
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
you hurt like ache
and adderall
and arnica
you hurt like bruises
and battle scars
and broken bones
you hurt like cuts
and *******
and countryside
you hurt like death
and destruction
and die-hard
you hurt like electricity
and emergency rooms
and edit-undo
you hurt like **** you's
and fire
and fallen trees
you hurt like garbage cans
and gonorrhea
and gang ****
you hurt like hell
and holes in the road
and heartache
you hurt like israel
and illness
and ignition fumes
you hurt like jaundice
and jugular veins
and jack in the box
you hurt like karma
and kissing
and kerosine lamps
you hurt like lightning
and love
and literary terms
you hurt like mother
and mary
and moses
you hurt like nakedness
and nosebleeds
and nervous breakdowns
you hurt like oil spills
and old yeller
and oral quizzes
you hurt like parkinson's
and parties
and panic
you hurt like queens
and questions
and quantum physics
you hurt like rogaine
and roses
and rope burn
you hurt like solar power
and stomach aches
and ***
you hurt like teeth cleanings
and tar
and tobacco
you hurt like ulcers
and underwear
and unrequited love
you hurt like viruses
and venus fly traps
and vapor rub
you hurt like warning signs
and weight gain
and war
you hurt like x-rays
and x marks the spot
and xoxo
you hurt like your mom
and your dad
and you
you hurt like zig zags
and zero
and zip ties
(a.m.c.)
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Mnimalists uproot everything,
Aiding natural entropy.
Poets can do likewise.
Omit redundancy;
Scorn verbosity,
Make words work
Hard.
Articles shunned,
Prepositions abhorred;
Conjunctions - need none.
Edit,
For our sake.
Snip,
Fit words together.
Make words work
Harder.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
I'm writing the story of my life,
and I'm not letting anyone hold the pen.
The pen is mightier than the sword.
I'll write out all my pain, damage, fear.
I'll shoot for the moon,
even if I miss I'll land among the stars.
They all told me that because of my past,
I could never become anything great,
that I'd never have success,
never be good enough,
that what they did to me was my fault.
I wanted to grow up.
I finally did.
I excaped their torture.
Now, I keep writing my story.
Write. Edit. Change. Repeat.
I'm not even completely grown up.
2 years.
But it's happening now...
I've started toa ture into an adult.
Frankly, I'm scared.
I'm not exactly sure what to do.
I'm taking over sooner than planned,
I'm working a real job now,
I'm responsible for sisters well being.
I just don't know.
But that's ok.
I have my faith and I have my pen.
I don't want to miss out on the people who
have me mesmerised...
But how can I captivate them and weave
them a story?
I don't know. I don't know if I can.
My rythem and rhyme is so unique,
there's no hope in attempting
to intertwine another beautiful soul.
I'm sorry. I just don't know.
All I do know is
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
Yes, you are indeed right.
I’m weird and a bit strange
unconventional, odd, different.
But no,
I do not want to cut myself into pieces to suit
to your approval of what’s normal
and what’s needed.
I do not need to edit myself to fit in.
I do not need to apologize for what
and who I am.
I am strong enough to live my life in my own terms.
I dance to the beat of my own music.
It doesn’t matter if nobody understands me.
I am just being me.
I am real.
I am beautiful.
I am unique.
I am a proud misfit.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 9:54 PM UTC
**Drop your Grudge Rants
by the door
We Will Not Tolarate
This Anymore
Edit and toss Distasteful Rhymes
Ugly Poems with Vain designs
Haughty thoughts and
bitter words
Childish petty accusing verbs
Who did What to Who and When
Will this Clusterfuck never end?
Selfish actions, Spoiled Children
We Refuse to be your Minions
Like CNN
And Drone Fox news
We've had enough of
Self Serving views
Hurting hearts, far and wide
tender Poets with
tenuous pride
Yet, Strutting and Indignant
for who I ask?
All those involved,
A Donkeys ***
Not a home for
Egotistical Zealots
Nor a place for
flinging pellets
We come in Peace, HP to share
Not get caught in ugly snares
And to the few that
have the gaul.
"If you have nothing decent to say,
say nothing at all"**
**YOU CHOOSE TO USE
HP THIS WAY.
GO AWAY. FIND SOME
WHERE ELSE TO PLAY.**
●HELLO●HELLO●HELLO●
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC