"excepts" poems
Change your pants, change your shirt, look presentable! That's all I ****** ever hear from you! I'm not good enough and I will never be good enough for you. No I'm not your prissy princess, no I didn't graduate, no I don't have a job. I'm done saying sorry, because I'm not. This is me, so deal with it. You don't have a ***** ***** *** daughter that wears pink and curls her hair with fake fingernails and smile. You have me and if you don't like it, than i won't have to be your daughter, OK! I'm my moms daughter who excepts me for who I am and not what I wear. So you know what? **** you! **** you to the way you want me to be! **** you to the way you never had me! And **** you for trying your hardest to change me, it's not going to happen!
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
Love, is like a clock.
My first love ended with four knocks.
His soul transfers.
Yet, he still knows all the answers.
He saves me time after time.
His blue box is a sign.
Though you don't know if it's true.
You, may have just seen Doctor Who.
Ignorant you are to make fun of his bowtie.
All his tales are true, never lies.
Everyone wants to know what he used to be.
But all he replies is follow me.
Through the vortex, time passes fast.
And this journey to the end of my life, will always last.
The Doctor, never excepts a word in return.
With every trip, the more I learn.
The galaxy is unknown to me and you.
But is explored by Doctor Who.
Protecting our world and lands a far.
The Doctor is my wish from a shooting star.
You can see him, if you just think.
And remember, just not to blink.
Angels, lurk behind turned backs.
Their hands, covering their faces, ashamed of what they lack.
Creatures from all across the land.
I see double, standing side by side on the sand.
Monsters are real he says...
As he puts on his fez.
The padorica has been unlocked.
And then closed and stopped.
The Doctor, the protecter of galaxies.
Is the only person I wish to see.
On my doorstep in the middle of the night.
To travel through time, and save the light.
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 12:15 PM UTC
Like an old cushion
Whose stuffing you removed
Excepts its me
Just a few ***** of fluff
Clinging to the inside corners
Comprising my soul
Forced up against the stitching
Very Old Stitching
Ready to break and cast
The remainder of me out
But for the moment
For a long moment
The half empty pillow of me
Still offers a cozy worn velour exterior
To those who like that sort of thing.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
My golden brass
Did you hear a silver tone.
One day I remembered the sound we made.
Oh boy with thirteen trys
I played the song of things.
The sound was a still like a drop of rain.
Great full Holst composed his eyes in vain.
And now im chopping my lips with my dreaded lay over.
Five years ago and now im searching the twenties
For old photographs about the way I played.
My heart stops and excepts the choices I made.
Because the future now the preseant is grey like a grave.
I still dream of film and simpler days.
Like it was still ambitious
When I see trombones sliding and clarinets deciding
What reed made the sound of jazz.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
There is a Seymour in all of us - not more a fragile name but perhaps not less. We are all equally cut, strings loosened past our own internal metronomes, flashing bits of poetry past those who will listen. Or rather, those who must listen - the longer no one does the faster these strings within us snap piece-by-piece. Soon we will become balloons that float away and pop. We, leaving Earth for space. Note that poetry is not just the meter that stirs heat and snaps foot-beats within our tongues - but the needles that ***** them too.
In these poems are buried stick figures and falsified diary entries - excepts of a language wrought from our own souls. Today I wore a baseball mitt scribbled with bright green verse as to not get lost running around the diamonds. We are all, in our own way, misunderstood and that’s where I feel Seymour’s got something over us. The innate, misread poetry of our collective consciousness is pervasive in his entire life. Maybe this is less of an introduction. Less of a poem even, than a eulogy for Seymour Glass - the most delicate man who ever lived.
He threw a stone at the one girl he truly loved, as we drew stick figures.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
To me I could care less if I'm popular or not
But to more high school kids it means the the world
To me I could care less about what's the newest trend for clothes
But to high school kids it means life
To me being popular is nothing because I would rather know I fit in a group who excepts for me
To me the newest trend is nothing because I'm thank full for what I have
To me being myself is the most important not something I'm not
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
As soon as I open my eyes in the morning,
I immediately worry about what others think.
They expect beauty.
They expect intelligence,
They expect success.
I will look at myself for hours at a time.
Just to figure out which ****** expression,
Which angle,
Which tilt of my head,
Is good enough.
I layer on makeup to be what society thinks Is flawless,
I will wear the clothes society excepts
I will do what society defines as "proper"
When will I be good enough
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
The perfect person is someone who excepts everyone for who they are.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
I have this thing
This thing that I do
It's no big deal
It's just this thing that I do
I took three steps
That's one less than four
Even though four is not a bad number
It is too close to the ones that are
Three and eight are the best
Followed by twelve and twenty-four
And all the numbers of seven
Well not the numbers with five
Those send shivers down my spine
Even numbers are better than odds
Excepts two
Which combined with three is five
I said odds are worse
But thirteen is pretty great
As long as it doesn't mix
With the ones that I hate
And eight is Ok
But sometimes it makes me think
That eight is too close to nine
And to make nine you must have five
So sometimes I don't think
That eight is so Ok
This is the thing
This thing that I do
I know this behavior is strange
But this is just the thing that I do
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
It's fascinating isn't it?
How we can be on an eight hour trip
And we see nothing outside
Excepts the outside inside our phones
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
I paint flowers
So they do not die.
But die they do
As die all does.
In the heat of summer
Or heat of flame;
In leafy green
Or paper’s ash.
Nothing remains
Excepts remains
Of what was
Now something else.
Die they do
As die all does.
But nothing dies
Forever.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
It has become customary to press a blade to the inside of my left wrist when she tells me I am worthless.
I ache for the blood to seep from my damaged skin, pumped through my body from my damaged heart.
I sit in silence and wait; for him to come in and comfort me, to show me care and compassion, but he doesn’t.
Not anymore.
It’s hours.
I made a plan in seventh grade that the anklet would stop the burn of silver.
Anklets break.
Promises break.
It all becomes okay.
After the death of my grandmother, the last time I thought I would do it, I found a red string.
Tied it around my ankle.
Promised myself I would never do it whilst it was on.
But bad days exist.
And so do scissors.
And everlasting stress that never leaves and an easy way to feel without feeling.
Blood bubbles when it seeps through the gaps in your skin.
And it hurts but what hurts more is the ache in your chest when she tells you
you're stupid
you don't respect me
you owe use
we own you
I want to hit you
change your attitude, girl
Watch out
Obey me
I AM YOUR MOTHER
as if mother, was a synonym for god.
Guilt and hurt and god how did I end up here again?
It's knowing the answer.
Its knowing blame is bad and modesty is good and pain is for the ones who love but love is for the ones who are free from pain.
It's having to keep silent because asking for support is like giving her another bullet
another thing to say
another reason to want to die
And when you pick your own crying body up off the floor, bruises from biting and pinching and hitting and clumps of hair and tissues of blood,
It's being alone.
Its the eerie silence that follows.
It's concealer on wrists. It's looking down to avoid eye contact. Its wishing someone would ******* notice.
it's structured loneliness.
it's the skills you had to learn all alone.
It's fighting for breath, not knowing whether to stop or breathe.
It's about helping others
before ever helping yourself
It's being called worthless at the bottom of bad days
It's your own problems magnified because you don't hide them well enough
It's hurting
and I want it to stop
I write as the blade is pressed to my wrist once again.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
Dresden
As the war was winding down
it was decided to bomb Dresden
It had no industry and had no military target.
the bombing was vengeance
Ten thousand people were killed that night
mostly burnt to death as the attack created a firestorm.
This was ******
The killers got medals.
With the war on the thought was a dead German
is a good German.
I think this outrage prolonged the war.
It took years before the atrocities saw the light of day,
excepts India and Kenya, few knew Britain
could be party off mass ******
The Albinos has been revelry to many carnages and
gotten away with it.
It is time for an apology to Dresden and her people.
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 5:47 AM UTC
They came to your home to see you.
You worn a blue sari
Kept your eyes like a deer's eyes.
You did't comb your hair,
Though it was not need to be.
You were simply gorgeous.
So, comb was vain to your beauty.
You used props, lipstick, and so many things on thy face.
They surprised,especially your fiance.
He was not accustomed with your such appearance.
He knew you are pretty than queen Sheba
More destructive than Helen
More Affectionate than Mighty Aphrodite
And more prosperous than Athena.
In spite of all, you took props excepts comb of your hair.
Everyone praised you a lot.
No one could understand your claptrap but he
He smiled at you
And you returned it with a wink.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC