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seethroughme Oct 2009
disillusion
stings
and the echo
rings
in perpetual
anticipation
of inevitable
unreachable
expectation
we are human
and we will hurt
Atoosa Jun 2018
Even before our first date
You make sure we have The Conversation  
Heaven forbid I should mistake you for a man of honor
That I should have any expectation....
That you know how to treat me
As a friend .....or a lover
As a woman of substance
A lady not a *****


Your immaturity doesn’t surprise me
But until that moment that you showed your hand
I was willing to suspend my disbelief
To give you the benefit of the doubt
To let you set the bar higher
But you succeeded in lowering my expectations
Even further
Seeking a REAL MAN. Open heart, available future, ready for something true and awesome. Players and half-hearted daters need not apply. Bring the fire or go elsewhere looking for your fun cuddle bunny.....not to sound jaded. I'm not bitter. I'm just NOT wasting my time on manboys because I believe REAL MEN are out there and I want to find mine.
Smoke Scribe Mar 2015
Part II  of "Got 0 Followers"

aim high
to keep
it low

expectations
such an
Awesome Awful
curse
others infect
you with

don't, yada yada,
ya wanna be like
Tom, **** and Jane,
even Harry, a transgendered
friend and fellow (ha) outcast,
all with a good job
prospects of a
goodly tented long life?

so ya write poems
to nobody
about nothing and
you are pleased
to be pleasing just yourself

in writing you have
nothing to prove,
so read them
like keepsakes
ya like,
keep 'em & me hid,
in the shoebox
under the closeted
pile of ***** clothes,
special designer outfits concocted
so they keep my remains,
privatized and unsanitized,
my equity,
hidden,
disguised as disgusting

but for god-sakes
don't follow me,
unless
you want to curse us
both with
Expectations of Expectations,
then comes with
illiteracy of
Affection

then the literary
pre-tension
that always follows,
leading to

Affectation,
the first derivative of the infection of affection

yeah,
then comes
caring
and it instantly it's too late,
you're *******,
right up the mental heine,
lost condemned
ruined annihilated
crushed subverted
crushed into
mental death camp suffocation of more, please ma,
can I have some more?

**crap, why did you have to go and follow me?
devine Aug 2018
a whole year
a whole wild world

hundreds of laughter
gorgeous amber
restrain my anger
i thought it was for the better
but my heart is shattered

unbearable pain
from a beautiful sin
getting wider everyday
getting sadder everyday

i am aware of limits
i face it every minute
but we're beyond that
is it that bad

been out all seasons
escaping prisons
fighting demons
i shout it out loud
hold you around
feeling insanely proud
you can tell by the clashing sound
but why am i wrong to believe in
everything we are
everything i got

my strength subsides eventually
painfully

because i'm out here fighting
but you're in there hiding
Arisa Mar 2
Be not the Clown,
But the Joker.
Don't wear the pendant,
Wear the choker.

Please, take your time,
But only if you hurry.
However, do not stress,
Unless I tell you to worry.

**** yourself,
But **** me first.
Believe in fortune,
Believe you're cursed.

Look good in white,
Look great in black.
Come here tomorrow,
and never come back.

Vote one way and please vote the other.
Hate your rival, yet love their mother.
Take down notes and burn them all away,
Collect the ashes and do your chores for the day.

You gotta be smarter,
But you better be dumb.
Play the violin,
But bang the drum.

And the most important thing of all
Is to never take anyone's advice EVER.
- Because everyone on God's green Earth
Think they're so **** clever.
A whimsical poem I made when I turned 16.
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2018
Let me know
What was that
That made you
To choose him/her

She/He replied
Leave it, or listen
He/She is the future
Nothing more

Being an observant and a traveller of examined life I come to this conclusion. Tragedy does not happen, from the very beginning  It is "Us" who pave the path within. With the unawareness we focus to travel to the destination where we don't belong. Throughout the journey we keep on dreaming with a hope of a good day making us vulnerable to the threshold, when even a single undesired word, few seconds delay, lyrics of the background music could unexpectedly break us.
Trust me we all are fragile.

Let it be simple, if we are watering the leaves of the plant and hope to grow, we get the result what we have to accept. Sometime mishaps happens, we are the culprit. How dare we expect to water the roots of the plant in neighbor's terrace and wish for the fruit to be ours.

We may smell the fragrance if the kind breeze blow towards our side.
Even we may always get the fragrance if we follow the direction of the wind.
The choice is ours.
Does it worth?
Will we be happy?
Can we hide the pain?

Always
The choice is all ours.
Genre: Dark Diary
Theme: Examined Life || Words of wisdom
naught Oct 2018
I've been expecting too much;

expecting too much on people,

who doesn't expect anything from me.

Even I ain't expecting anything from myself.
Eleni Jul 2017
'Are you pleasing those Lions?'

She thinks to herself under Nelson's Column.

'I am no hero of the Nile, nor of Trafalgar. I am an empty vessel.'

City of Angels, yet full of devils. Will she find the exit from Oblivion, in those molten, vermillion revels?

'And will you climb that stairway to heaven? Is it true that what glitters is gold?'

That golden dust, which lies on her beside table, sedative for her sorrows.

'Oh he was a foul coxcomb. England expects every heart will follow its duty!'

She is followed, by those feral eyes;
Those on the underground, those in the streets

And those who she will wish
her eyes will never meet.
This short poem was partially inspired by one of my favourite songs from The Doors called 'Hyacinth House' whereby Jim Morrison expresses loneliness and the nature of being judged by others based on careers, personalities and relationships. I combined this with the strong presence of the lions in Trafalgar Square in London, which have a intimidating appearance and represent the strength of the British Empire. These eyes of judgement seem to pierce through the speaker in this poem who is being criticised by the personified statues for being unworthy of recognition.
Keerti Jan 2018
Although I didn’t jump in the end
I hope you saw where your actions led
I did not turn out like the boy in that story
Because I believed that life had more glory
That is not to say I did not think about it
If not for my fear of heights, I would have done it
Most nights I slept with guilt, but you don’t know it
If I commit a crime, I perfect it
You can keep blaming me like a broken record for it
But think back on what you did and tell me I was wrong for it
Expectation can ****, and I hope you finally understand it
That maybe I wanted a life, without books in my hand
And maybe I didn’t want you disappointed in me
So maybe I’m a piece of trash for saying all this
But this my outlook on life
Don’t **** over this
Butterfly May 3
Didn't expect that life without you was going be so hard.
Yes I am lonely.
And I did not expect that lonelyness could be so hurtful.
Idk if I made a mistake with the grammar haha
Shut the eyes
Shut the ears
Shut the mouth

Shut the heart
Calm the soul
Genre: Abstract
Theme: Rest
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
~~~
Sabila Siddiqui Apr 2018
“I keep expecting people to care. To worry about me. To pull me back when I push them away. To be my umbrella on the rainy days. To try harder, ask and reach out. But when they don’t, it breaks my heart. I know it sounds irrational, but I feel disappointed. And once I’ve healed from the experience, I go back to hoping once more. It’s like I never learn my lesson.” Each word reeked of despair and regrets as they slipped off my tongue.
“Yeah, I understand you. I do the same.” She said in the most reassuring of ways with her hand holding mine. Her ocean blue eyes were comfortingly soft and deep with wisdom. “The only thing that really has been getting me through is trusting myself enough to care when someone doesn’t do the same. To catch myself when someone else doesn’t.”
Rohan Press Oct 2018
a million lines make a window:
each suspended,
each digressing in the paleness
of space.

this distance from
you (a blotch of dark ink,
bits of pressed lead)
can never hurt more
than your expectation.
i spent the last weekend waiting in anticipation. each morning i woke up with a hope—a plethora of possibility that faded with the setting sun.

i suppose i wouldn't have it any other way.
S Bharat Apr 10
The Sparrow

I desired to be loved
and flew down to them
They were so kind that
They just fondled and
Set me free to fly away.

S. Bharat
Pyrrha Jul 2018
I find it strange that when I look into your eyes I'm not met with an endless starry sky. The world around me doesn't freeze or turn monochrome around everyone but you. I don't see an endless sea or visions of a setting sun, no matter my determination. So how do I know it is love if it isn't as the words I've heard all my life describe?

Yet my heart still drops when you walk into the room, even when your focus is a place far off. People say it's like a flutter but this is far too heavy to use such a light word to describe such a feeling. It's painful, but I know it isn't something ominous or bad because it feels right. How do I know it is love if none if my words describe it right as they should?

I get it every time our eyes meet or you tilt your head and smile with your head in the clouds. I get it when you laugh to yourself or say something hardly above a whisper. When you focus so hard you ***** up and let out that silly sigh of aggravation and I feel such deep affection. Yet is it alright for me to say what I feel is love when I can't even tell myself what love is?

I don't think your eyes need starry skies or my stomach needs a million butterflies. Your smile doesn't need to illuminate the room and my thoughts for you don't need an anchor. Your love shouldn't have an expectation and my words don't need to have a proper diction.

Perhaps I'll see it in your heart or feel it in your touch one day if you feel the same regardless of what the world has sold me with their modern day poetry. I promise you that no matter how hopeless I become I will find out for myself  what it means to love you wholly, even if I have to find out from loving at a distance.
I don't understand why I write so many poems about love when I am not even in love. It is so frustrating to have words without a muse and a muse without words.
Sophia Li Dec 2018
i thought something is coming back
no lies
in your eyes
oh babe
i am in love again -
the rock hit the water
never coming back -
oh babe
i should not bring my heart next time
PiLomus Sep 2018
You should do this,
You should do that,
Why these diktats I do not understand.
Are we living our life to comply?
Are not we here to supply.
Why we are to be part of some creed,
When in reality we all are from the same seed.
We are stuck in a whirlpool of sanctions,
And I do not know how to come out of this expansion.

Expectations are defining our life more than existence do,
And the biggest question humanity is asking
what should I do?
We are blaming history for our misconceptions,
Naming presumptions as The inceptions.
How we are going to move ahead,
When we are becoming a body with just a head,
Shedding our humanity for a mere piece of bread.

We are the creation and creators of our world,
All of us is an existence a real thing,
Our creativity is our ability to think.
Then why should we be like someone,
When we could be anyone.
I want to holler out at the world with this answer
Yes, we can
Because we are not endowed with a taste
We have a whole Selection.
Expectations as a hope are a bliss but as a requirement a living hell.
L B Jul 2018
I cannot pick a color
I love more
Each is thrilling
and some seem
the breath of life to all the rest
I loved my crayons
They became my escape
from misery
the contrast to any given day at school

Any excuse to use them all
or just one
to avoid that lowest reading group
the monstrosities of math
If I couldn't sing it
there were no letters in the alphabet
I could not tell you A from Z

But you see--
That day was
purple!
That was all that mattered
I loved its richness and its depth
its mystery
its royalty
King Midas would have liked it, I was sure
almost a religion
Vestments of the priest
in the times of expectation
It is the explanation for

the last of day

As a five-year-old
I drew my love for purple
Passionate
and outside all the lines-- off onto the desk
I was so proud!
But--

Miss Platt, so horrified
asked,

What is it
I was trying to do?

I didn't know....

I was suddenly ashamed
and frightened too
This may have been the first time I actually touched down in reality.  Been trying to take off again ever since.

The religious times of expectation were Advent for Christmas and Lent for Easter.
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
~~~
Mike Nov 2018
I threw a stone into a lake
to see if it would come back to me.
Truly I knew what the result would be,
but it didn't stop me hoping u see.
For I hoped I was special and a sign would reveal itself indeed.
But as expected the lake swallowed up my stone,
the glistening rock now a glistening memory.
A wise man once told
"Nothing"
I listened to his silence

Then the same man told
"Write what you feel”
I obeyed

Journey has never been a straight line yet we need to be okay with that. We expect something, something is there waiting for us to happen. Still our effort is to make life as smooth as we can. We plan, we work, we understand, we stay cautious, but we have to move on.

After all we learn.
And we don’t see things the way we used to.
Life is not always a movie with a happy ending.
If so, then why can't we believe death as a graduating time?

The end of us.
Genre: Observational
Theme: Transition
PsycheSpeaks Aug 2018
I feel the cool breeze
dance across my shoulders
and wisp through my hair
welcome at first-
sending a shiver down my spine
not unwanted, but shocking

A break from the saturated heat
nature plays a joke on us all
keeping us on our toes
and flexible to change-
a good lesson to be learned
the lovely winter in June
Dalcanne Louise Dec 2018
They surpassed on everything
and here he is and asking
his own capability
that is surely a liability.

Who is the jack of all trades
that did everything to aid?
He is a man who is a master of none
that thought the existence is gone.

He who climbs the summit
to reach expectation
but failed to prevail
then latter a disappointment.

Proud and loud
he waves the flag
for it is not the end
but another start.
My whole life I've had a bar set just above my head,
and my only task was to grab it.
Written all over it was the rewards and success I would receive,
the admiration and honor, the love and recognition,
and all I would have to do was grab that bar.
So I tried.
I jump up and down,
reaching higher and higher,
I was inches away,
I was almost there,
I just had one more jump,
and then suddenly the bar got higher.
But I didn't give up,
each and everytime the bar got higher,
I learned to jump farther and farther.
But what I didn't realize is this that each time I jumped
I dug into the ground just a little more.
The bar wasn't rising,
I was just sinking,
I was digging my own hole of demise,
burying myself in this grave.
This wasn't my life,
this was a pit of self-hate,
a manipulative game that wrapped me around its finger with a disturbing ease.
I feel like I'm stuck in this hole,
trapped with no escape,
each attempt I make to grab this bar of expectation,
the worse all these thing get.
I look up at this bar with longing,
and then a question forms,
Who set this bar?
Why is it here?
Was it my parents?
My siblings?
My friends and family?
No. It came it to me suddenly,
like a punch to the face,
it is I who have set this bar upon myself,
it is I who is doing this.
No one else.
I put this expectation onto myself,
and I dug myself this cell.
Now I don't how to end this poem,
because it doesn't have an end really,
as long as I'm alive, I'll be fighting this battle,
and as long as I'm alive, I'll be writing.
So now I've written myself into a corner.
I'll believe this is what they call a conundrum. Huh.
Do you ever have those poems where you have exactly what you want inside your head, you have everything all perfectly laid out, and then it just all gets weird when you actually write it? that was basically this. I had an idea, the idea kinda went weird, and the end was just, I don't even know what I was doing there...
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes pasted along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps nineteen,
long brown naked legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam naked in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,  
A huge smile on her unforgettable,
beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, in sight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit. Drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Some days and nights, that young maiden of
Moorea does still visit me, in dreams as real
as can be. She never grows old, nor does the
beauty we shared for that one brief moment in
time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her sixties, most likely
a Mother, even a Grandmother yet living.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
Michael Briefs Jul 2017
From white canvass,
a blank ledger of potent
expectation,
awaiting form and function:
the seminal swirl of
her brush signals,
simple hue,
subtle structure.
From flesh stroke
sanguine blush of
satin seams
and outstretched limbs,
the artist invokes
shade and light.
Spring greens, rampant peaks,
reaching aloft into
gossamer mists; calm swells,
verdant bosoms,
inviting fields of
luxuriant temptation.
From an eternal cool,
the (all too) temporary warmth
of her embrace
lies just beyond:
enticing, luring, coaxing
into heady desire.
From whence,
the dream
unfolds...
See a photo that inspired this poem: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10209365905400609&set=a.10208174166607884.1073741828.1113041505&type=3&theater
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