"edits" poems
I despise social media.
It's ugly, to state the obvious
Our lives are posted, retweeted, altered, reblogged, perfected, and photoshopped to exactly how we want to be perceived
We have the freedom to be exactly what they want us to be.
It starts with a few edits doesn't it,
pigmented our skin to seem smooth and sun kissed,
that would seem most acceptable right?
Maybe an extra like for the skinnier waist.
More reassurance for brighter colors.
Some more filters will hid the emptiness you feel with your friends
Another like
Flashier clothing, phones, shoes, cars, other simple words our eyes have latched on to
Another like
We urge ourselves to portray the life of leisure and effortless beauty, happiness, success,
Another like
But what are we enjoying?
Another like
Views of our changing world through a 3 by 8 view.
Another like
Events pass by swipe
Another like
and swipe
Another like
And when we managed to unlock ourselves from this grasp
We always come back
Like flies to light, more like scratches to a scab
Festering we find ourselves getting ****** back in
To an imaginary world, that if destroyed, would have no physical effects on their fictional beings
For without this world, maybe eyes will open
We will step past the boundaries,
and start to love our beings
unfiltered
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
V.B. Wigglesworth wakes at noon,
Washes, shaves and very soon
Is at the lab; he reads his mail,
Swings a tadpole by the tail,
Undoes his coat, removes his hat,
Dips a spider in a vat
Of alkaline, phones the press,
Tells them he is F.R.S.,
Subdivides six protocells,
Kills a rat by ringing bells,
Writes a treatise, edits two
Symposia on "Will man do?,"
Gives a lecture, audits three,
Has the ***** club in for tea,
Pensions off an ageing spore,
Cracks a test tube, takes some pure
Science and applies it, finds,
His hat, adjusts it, pulls the blinds,
Instructs the jellyfish to spawn,
And, by one o'clock, is gone.
8.5k
writing songs sans artifice,
that grow better different,
different better,
the lyrics of a man growing older,
insides out, featuring his slips, all showing,
eyes squinting from hard lifestyle experience,
taking on wearied shades of beige yellowing,
a tanned blackness, time edits them, so now,
they sound the same but holier,
from the hazing of hazards
one builds for and by himself,
drilling & extracting the spit-shine of
all that all is fine,
but liquor & cat's paw black shoe polish
just can't quite cover 'em up (2),
the stabbing itch each of the every time
one quests and questions
his ego,
always another test…
why would I ever want that?
his fingers create tinkling at rapido pace,
tinkling an arrhythmia of rhymes
previously perviously (1) unseen,
self exploration, that we all realize
is an unforgiving, never ending,
source of melodic crying out loud;
and when the sensual, arrayed pleasures,
begin to bore
holes of no important consequence,
the querys~to~self get even harder
to explicate what they intimate,
who they implicate,
which parts of you,
failed to answer satisfactorily…
why would I want want that
forever?
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem:
Painting a Function Different
I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic
Beyond the porch-floor
Minerva hangs her wash
making the invisible visible
Eighty two and three quarters deaf
she doesn’t notice
But this is, in fact, reality
Has always been this way—
Bent and bird-like existence
Balanced on two twigs—always busy—
Her task, is the *********** of space
Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing
The three phenomena which I must....
Things no one notices—
climbing on the abstract surface of a picture
Switching the curtains
God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…!
It figures that—
Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune
I try to fix them—
Her ankles now
And she curses at accidental quality
from the corner of her mouth
which has only one form
Clothespin or cigarette?
Long johns and animals and men in heaven
and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities
surround us translucent, contained
I decide what to get for her birthday—
We are good friends
through painting a function different
For me?
Predestined necessity.
Minerva?
forgets her manners
and eats like a survivor—
Thanks going without saying.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
1)
How many writers, asked a friend
(with a cheeky twinkle in his eye)
does it take to change a light bulb?
That's a dim-wit's question, I said
You should ask:
*How many times will a writer
change the same light bulb?*
2)
My non-writer friend
(his twinkle now dull, then dead)
scratched his head
and to enlighten him I shed some light
on the subject:
*A writer edits and changes
their work many times
to get it perfect;
and so the same thing happens
when you make a writer change the bulb*
No, my friend did not appreciate
the illumination
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
Even I cannot find this care anymore.
I’ve run vague and dry of all moist thought,
Brittle will scores this round,
All life is best endured no more,
I will not bend to peek at joy,
Each smile a twist, all laughter ups to snort and ugly choke,
Time strides by, a hustler, a tomcat, a victim on the run.
At last the end of dreams, such bold relief.
Not more takes or edits done,
I breathe in whole, without the worry of dismal hope,
Each expectation outed now and free to fade,
I court the hours without a scheme,
Death will pace until my shift is done,
This warm friend who sentences but can’t condemn,
Staid promise, an infinity of next for all.
Soon enough this now is gone,
Rejoice
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Car rides, blowing smoke, ignorance is bliss, so is smoking dope.
Keep watch, tuck below. Take a **** you said you'd be right back and i'm still holding this **** in since we last spoke.
City lights, plane flights. Breathe some air, keep chill.
Take a chill pill just relax, keep still here's some lax.
This town overdosed, kids missing found dead. Vision blurry, getting red.
Pay attention to the Feds.
Their just fiends, they're not your friends.
This life I know
This life I was drug into
Gotta watch yourself, gotta watch your back.
They do it for the high, they do it for the cash.
Quick to getting your cards stolen for a free stash.
Steady steady, think outside the box.
They will yank you, yes they're called the cops.
Take it easy. Do what they say.
Or you'll be in handcuffs, wishing you were praying.
Prison is where the dogs go. Jail is where the ****** go.
Guns in the Trunk, gloves on my hands.
Leave no evidence, I'm not punk.
Those around you, will impact your reputation,
Those around you may impact your temptation.
Bring my bag, bring a change of clothes.
Put these on, you're tagging along.
The faces and cases of all the **** and it's users.
You might run into one while with your folks.
Or you might be running from your family to find a ****
Don't poke, edits aren't good.
Easy to catch a case,
hard to come up on a empty parking space
It will remain forever, never let you free
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
There's a dusty book on an old chestnut bookshelf,
'Love' scrawled across the spine in golden letters.
Everyone has read it's secrets and taken them to heart.
Everyone has tasted it's nectar and gotten drunk on its words.
Everyone has prayed to its truths.
Everyone has promised to abide.
Verse I: She will love him.
Verse II: He will love her.
She-him, he-her.
These pronouns are tattooed in my eye lids.
These pronouns course through my veins.
These pronouns are stuck in my throat.
I'm choking on a normality I've been force fed,
my insides burning with society's expectations.
As I prayed every night for the man of my dreams.
As I confessed ever boy I had ever kissed.
As I looked at him and felt nothing.
As I looked at her and felt everything.
My fingers skimmed the pages of society's bible,
the pages slicing apart my fingers and leaving blood in the margins.
When my friends placed the rosary around their hands,
and I placed my hands in hers.
When I looked into the words being taken so blindly,
and my body created antibodies for every lie I had contracted.
And I stared into the verses, washing them away with angry tears.
And I threw the book into the fire, watching as the flames made their final edits.
And I looked into her eyes, and I tasted her lips.
And I let everything about her become everything I know.
I ignored the teachings I had once treasured and wrote a book for myself.
I learned to be unfaithful, and put my faith in her.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
A close read
reveals that
I am nothing
but a rough draft
riddled with
misspellings—
a work in progress
watered down by
superfluous adjectives,
non sequiturs, and
smothered verbs.
Love is an editor.
She courts me
with a pocket of
sharpened pencils,
blue and red.
She marks me
up meticulously—
dele, stet
dele, stet.
Decades punctuated
by intermittent edits.
Sunlight slanting
through an hourglass.
Her hair as white
as the final page.
When the end comes,
will she love me enough
to give me another pass?
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
HE said to write
create.
{read my wordfs} dont be scared.
your m.ind will fill in the blanks
caps lock willl destroy. your muind.
....your story begins now.
Dont be afraid and read the wLls./
find a quiet place.
find a song.
feel it. taste iut. create a song......
chapter two.
i went to ***
you came to me,
found me in a dark room....posted. I cant read this he said disappoinbted. :( keep trying :)))
{hey there friendship, lets have a heart to heart....walk outside for chapter two..... i'll be there in the night. In the quiet. silence.
phone is dead :(((( who cares! party in the basement.
can you read this yet???
tgake me on a messy date.
i want to play in the sunshoine. heal my /adhd please
((((adivan is gone :( who steals from a friend???
/where did Noelle leave her pants anyway
((((( chaptep two.
quit your mind. listen to the music..shhhhhhh////
read tyhisd 6omorrow...
caps lock are evilsssss.........
listenm tp the robots 2013......
find me in the dark writing rymes. changing soings. creating. , , , ,
authors. intillects.
teachers.
cults are bad!!!!!!!! god is love. dont do drugs and go on adventires.
read the bible everyday. silence your heart. take a deep breath. no one cares. they will foind you again.
dont be scared...
quiet moments are the best. where did i put my cigarettes. to be conyinued.
edit or no>>>>
bring back indie bands. then they become mainstream you know :( sad hipsters.
i just wanna play.
no one gets me.
pep talks and ****
partys downstairs.
find me later when they go to bed.
go play.
'
you have nothing to do tomorrow.
its only 11????? i like numbers. i hate math.
i have to *** still.
waiting. who cares. go to sleep. i'll stay up all night and write poems...
i sleep in tuckers room when heres not here. i miss him so bad sometimes. i wonder what 6 year olds dream about, you know?
this is gunna be EPICCCC!!!! sermon on the way...to becontinued. tweet me clues from the front porch.
i'lll be quiet. my phones dead anyway. oh well. phones are bad.
wheres the bathroom?
oh yeah. chapter two.
how long can i write this poem before they try and find me.
the basement is to farrrr.....cigarettes on the front po
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
Fresh Direct
Exit
I used to sleep
With pen and paper on my nighttime table.
Nowadays, my iPad tablet rests upon my chest,
Not only does it keep me warn,
It takes my poems from within, Fresh Direct,^
Edits, credits, and delivers them to your door,
While I'm still sleeping.
Which is why they come at all hours.
It is also why they call them,
Love's Labour's Lost saving devices.
Refill
My woman, my number one fan,
Grabs her pillow, mashes her face
Into my iPad warmed chest,
Without asking permission,
Thus fulfilling her mission critical.
Restoring the balance, refilling the tank
With high octane mystical, thru skin umbilical,
A first edition of the day blended mix named,
All's Well That Ends Well.
7:45 am
July 14th, 2013
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
Conservative these days now means
The richest are the few who glean
The wealth that exists in our land.
The rest of it is sleight of hand.
After decades of this foolishness
We have grown weary of your mess.
We don’t think we can ever win
This country back to from you again.
You seem to hate those who are non-rich
And include them in every austerity pitch.
You refuse to help them feed their brood
Then pay the farmers not to grow food.
You cover yourself with glowing self-praise;
People starve, you grant yourself a raise.
You stand before the rich and genuflect
And subject your constituents to neglect.
You want every child to be born
Then vote to have their allotment shorn.
You seem to want them not to thrive;
You only protect them until they are alive.
You send the soldiers to march and die
And deny them benefits. Tell us why.
Is it because you have your wealth
And no longer care about their health?
The most hateful game you always play
Is making the voters look another way.
While you make laws that take their rights
You engage them in unimportant fights
About who is sleeping with whom today
And who is straight and who else is gay.
Or you worry the people about war
While you funnel subsidies by the score.
You pay your friends and give them jobs
Then call your opponents egregious slobs.
You engage in double-talk about the facts
And claim calumnies are helpful acts.
You accept your fortunes from commerce
And agree to treat the populace worse.
No matter how often you rearrange things
You edits end up being very strange things.
We need to hear our own clarion call
And push this kind of politics to the wall.
We must do more than hope for liberty
And once again fight for the land of the free.
We can’t just sit around at home and mope.
As it is, today, we can only sadly hope
That some liberty you will choose to take
Will cause the regular people to awake.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 6:54 AM UTC
learn some UX/UI best practices
and above all the annoyances,
PLEASE STOP trying to be cute
with the perpetual edits
to the HP name
it's annoying
and distracting
from actual things
I want to read
thankyoumkaybuhbye
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:18 PM UTC
All the edits finished
All the audio in time
Geoff and Garry worked hard
To get the podcast up on line
topics from the serious
To topics quite delirious
full of energy
even one on me
A pair of pop culture pundits
Spewing whatever comes to mind
It's a great bit of entertainment
It might just expand your mind
Take the time to listen now
They may even have a row
You never know
So start the show
The Pendulum Podcast
Is the show of which I speak
They both put it together
They try to put one out
Most every week
It reaches to the geek in us
sometimes you'll need an omnibus
To understand
the things that these two can
It's enjoyable and funny
Take the time
and listen in
Do yourself a favour
It is not a mortal sin
But, who knows where
the show will lead
they do it for the fun not greed
you'll love to hear
The topics these two spear.
check out The Pendulum Podcast on facebook, and youtube. Link to youtube is as follows
http://www.youtube.com/user/ThePendulumOnTV/videos
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
The buzzing of the phone
a hand held device
that gets in the way of a hand holding life
and you can lie awake at night with thousands of "friends"
but I have a **** hard time believing
this was what Zuckerberg intends
when he says "what's on your mind?"
but nobody wants to know
unless your thoughts are endorsed
as was your image which was forced
filtering out reality
true colors getting dimmer
and when you're looking in the mirror
but you can't see yourself anymore
without the edits and "corrections"
and the comments "such a *****
that creep into your subconscious
'til you can't take it anymore
and somewhere in the iCloud
a thing went very wrong
when you were sprawled out in bed naked
in your bra and in your thong
and now the whole world thinks they own you
and you've gone and lost yourself
and that phone has taken everything
forget connection, where's your health
healthy relationship
why's your bed so ******* cold
you've got your hand held device
but where's your real life hand to hold?
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
I can’t remember when
I last wrote a poem with a pen
Writing once romanticised
now has been exorcised
From touching tablets or touching keys
magically
words begin
appearing on a screen
Organised as I wish
edits in an instant
easily erased
replaced or placed elsewhere on the page
A literary light show
based on binary play
then sent off to cyberspace
until another day
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
Camille is purple
tensing her body
feeling lonely
not lonely
enough
to call anyone
all calls are dry mouthed
and stained ***** red
apothic red if you
want her to be
exact although
unnatural
she writes
drunk
and never edits
the words tumble out
of her like kids who learn
gymnastics at a young age
and laugh at her for plugging
her nose when jumping into the
foam pit, so unnatural
Marilyn talks to her and she
feels a little less lonely, and
a little more comfortable in
her abnormalities as she sips
at her glass before chugging
the rest of the bottle while
pondering another until
she realizes that it's no
good for her rethinks
and decides it's a
yes
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
I shut off my power and my phone in an attempt to recalibrate, which is why I haven’t been posting lately. I go for a two hour walk everyday after work, talk to weird people, as well as make friends with stray animals before going home and playing my guitar until sundown. I light some candles and sit next to my open window and read until the Coast2Coast show comes on my crank radio and I listen until I fall asleep. The cold shower in the morning takes some serious ***** but after defeating the cold shower I have noticed my productivity at work sky rockets, as nothing that I will face through out my day will require the will power that is required in facing cold water submersion first thing in the morning. I have been writing the old school way with a silver Cross pen in a sketch book my mother had bought me for my 18th birthday, and boy have I forgotten what a pain it is to do edits with pen and paper.
I was growing bitter, self destructive, and unappreciative, and I figure I needed to hit rock bottom to appreciate the little things again. Thus far it is working, and I am only two weeks in. I am shooting for October 1st before I turn the power on. The phone may come sooner, as my boss is ******** I am attempting to build my body, mind and spirit as a result of my looming feelings of forlorn that have been pressing in on me in an almost shout that I have mostly ignored the past couple of years, but the time of putting my instincts aside has ended. My ear is to the ground and my eyes are to the sky and once I am full of what these fill me with, I will speak of what I have found. Be well friends, and see you soon.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
(hi, you reading this. I would love some edits and help on how to make this better, thanks so much!)
The air feels like
the backseat
of an old car
that’s been sitting
in the sun
for too long,
and the white,
gunky sun lotion
is sticky and
slippery
on clammy,
red skin,
sweating under
the heat
of the sun.
The same sun
that spills lazily
over the horizon
each morning
to be mopped up
by sandy beach towels,
as the day closes to an end,
each day after another,
melding together
in a band of
memories,
then neatly tucked away,
under old yearbooks,
and faded
photographs,
only to be pulled out
months later
over clusters of sleeping bags
and a flashlight
that’s almost dead.
No longer important,
just another summer
gone by,
the next one
will be just the same.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
Hey, everybody! So I've had this account since I started high school and now that I'm well into college and working on publishing more and more, I've created a second account dedicated to some of my favorite, more refined work. Here's the link! http://hellopoetry.com/ecarsyn/
There may be some poems from this account that you'll recognize as I'll be revising and posting on my second account from now on. I would love your support in this transition! I am open for collaborations, edits, suggestions, comments, etc!
With love,
Carsyn Elizabeth Smith
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
she lived the perfectly edited life
far removed from winks of fire, or the heartbreaks of ice
believed her worst fears when they told her horrible lies
eyes never daring to drink in the real blue skies
treasured pixels always poke her back
but they'll never give her the hug she really needs
cue a million pictures
neatly ordered and
expertly filtered
curated and staged
perfectly acted
never fully present
always facing just the right angle
bulletproof lips worn as pink armor
clinging to a fairytale told by corporations
that they may grow their monopolies and shares
that she may avoid the awkward moment
when she realizes that
one day
she's truly gonna die
no tweaks
no edits
no retries
just this mysterious message in her inbox
the one you just read
asking two simple questions:
are you awake?
are you ready to try?
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
I rarely edit my work
I prefer the fresh
green
words that sprout in the moment
There is something disingenuous to me
about letting someone
even a later self
uproot and replant my ideas
My mother wants me to
let the editors inside
she wants me to open my sanctuary
to the norms
the opinions
the pen
of the world
I'm afraid to touch my own words
because god loves ugly
because
I
love ugly
what would happen
if I let
them
touch my thoughts?
I think therefor I am
so if they help me think
am I still?
give me your downcast, your ugly, your broken
the grit and the grime of your teeming mind
I lift my pen, I peel back the wool
this is life, there is no golden door of escape
complacency is sickness
have I found it
of from it do I flee?
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
A crease in the socket of emotion
proposed a silent watery rhyme,
swam under the surface of your
thoughts, so as not to disturb
patterns forming, digits and dots
tapping at your side in vain edits
Caught, locked in tights cells of you,
I wound up the cotton reel, mending
the holes of doubt, and arching my
back, I purred along the wall, side stepping
sharp sabotage, where blood spurts,
cuts split their sides, dropping droplets
reddened and dark, stains of a thousand
prints, their script to prevent access.
I borrowed a moment from the street
sellers cart, persisted that I would not
sell him out, that the ground was solid
under my feet, bolt upright, proof
I sang my belief, like a bold penance,
scenes where money would cross palms
of one asking for more, a bowl held high,
armed with charming smiles. their half
beliefs studying my every transparency,
the guttural deluge swiftly passing me to
sewered excellence, tugging my heels,
entwining shoe laced lies. And how I
would fail, unable to shift the showcase
of my life. But, suckered under
the slip stream, I gargled the depths
while you made space for my spewing
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
Yr gonna feel like ****
The dinners, the openings
all don't matter.
The friends the small talk
the bougie dishes
all don't matter.
You know this
and I know this this
is why we are friends.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC