"expressiveness" poems
Dear feminism,
You're doing it wrong.
Showcasing your gender
in physical form
does not open awareness
of a woman's
mental
and
emotional
wealth.
It merely confirms
misogynist thoughts.
If you want
to make a point,
don't generalize your targets
as pigs.
Rather,
express what makes women valuable.
Men can be deeper
than your delusions
let you know.
----------
Dear homosexual male community,
I am repulsed
that people can
associate me
with you.
Emotion
or thought
or open-mindedness
or expressiveness
should not denote
****** orientation.
I love women to the point
that I am overly chivalrous;
why should me
being in touch
with my emotions
or being different
than the
'male status quo'
change my sexuality?
P.S. - Homophobia is fear of homosexuals,
not,
as you'd havepeople believe,
the dislike or refusal
to treat the act as natural.
P.P.S. - The way
you portray yourselves,
you are still straight,
you only prefer your
women
to have a ***** attached.
----------
Dear fellow men,
A lot of you are
perverted.
You focus on
superficial things;
the *****
the rear,
the hair color,
the eyes,
the shape...
For what purpose?
It is the mind
and the personality
that matter most.
It is because of you
that women have
painted our gender
as monsters,
pigs,
rapists.
And many of you are,
because,
in your minds,
can the women give any consent?
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 2:58 PM UTC
We’re (my roommates and I) at a specific time of youth - a time I’ll call “close.” We aren’t fully adults but we’re close, we’re not completely out and independent, but we’re close. And once again, we’ve got choices to make.
I read this paragraph to the room.
Lisa gasped and exclaimed “Not choices?!”
“More choices?” Anna groaned.
“I’ll have a bacon-cheeseburger with large-fries,” Sophy said, adding, “and a blueberry-triple-malt shake.”
“Freedom is choices,” Leong, our favorite communist, ungrammatically observed.
We’re in the second half of our junior year - which is still hard to believe. We’ll be seniors soon, and seniors have one foot out the door - they’re ‘over the **** academically - nothing will be thrown at them that they can’t casually handle, so they sleep-in or trek off to job interviews half the time or in my case, go med-school hunting.
I’ve written about our lives - the stresses, healthy doses of narrative-suffused teen drama, the ascetic beauties and the enchantments of freedom - trying to capture a few real-life moments at irregular intervals, in small ellipses, to tack them, like butterflies on cork.
What’s been hard to capture are the subtler shifts in taste and mood as we’ve aged. I’ve had to purposefully slow down, doppler shift from frantic student to observant writer, to even try and grasp the constantly evolving, small variations. Like Anna’s cainogenetic expressiveness, Leong's imponderable politics, Sophy’s evolving, coquettish bar-side poses and the growing assertiveness of Lisa’s gaze.
As we mentally prepare for our real lives, there are diffuse metamorphic changes afoot. What will we leave behind and what will we keep in order to “grow up?” I don’t mean changes in haircuts, clothes and make-up - although I’m sure I’ll MCU-those-out - I mean the psychological changes.
Throughout our college careers, the objects we’ve surrounded ourselves with, the settings we’ve chosen to inhabit, the faces we’ve shown the world, and even our intimate notions of ourselves have changed.
And It’s still only junior year, I can’t wait to see what comes next.
Feb 8, 2024
Feb 8, 2024 at 10:55 PM UTC
LETTER OF A MADMAN
Ayad Gharbawi
A scream
In my memory
I heard abstractly
While you talked to me
All I needed were humans
Real
How will it be
When I come to say my farewells to you
Towns you built are architecturally horrific
Expressiveness denied repeatedly
A madman spoke words none heard
Turned his brush strokes inside
Inner meanings to be meant
He spoke of love and deprivations unendurable
Killing his bearings
Christened himself as emptiness
How sad can you feel?
Can you understand, readers years from now?
Strangers coldened by life
Wrote manuscripts and discarded them
The oceans profound called out to the madman
Whose inner cadaver remained there
Devoured by existing fish
Oceans bottomless
Waters of no oxygen and light
Where fish survived in pain
Where did humanity touch with nature?
I never understood
Madman journeyed ‘neath the heavens black and starless
The ocean’s bed invited me here
Because that’s where I belong
I guess
Dec 29, 2009
Dec 29, 2009 at 7:59 AM UTC
Dark twins,spiders,pretending
to be her eye lashes,repeatedly flutter,
exuding charm, though
with tinges of the sinister
words can't capture, however
versatile in their expressiveness.
This black magic spell explodes, all over
like a butterfly enticed by a scented bloom
he resonates to her diabolic moves,
and flies straight in to her invisible net
ready to get him in to it's warm entanglement.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 7:35 AM UTC
Why do I have hands?
Why do I have hands,
to touch and to feel
to mold clay into wonderful shapes
to paint smiling faces on canvas,
only to reach and find that I can’t?
Why do I have eyes,
to see the wonders of the day
to close so that I may dream
to send messages of hope with their expressiveness,
only to cry these tears that blur my vision?
Why do I have a mind,
to think and learn
to feel and offer insight
to construct ideas in flowing scenes,
only to imagine what the fear must feel like?
Why do I have a heart,
to live and to breathe
to love endlessly
to feel emotions,
only to break, because you are gone?
Why do I have hands,
when I cannot hold you?
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Today I am a cloud
Wispy and floating along
Hoping a wind will come and take me
Shape me, move me
I am everything and nothing at once.
Tomorrow I am she.
Today I am the frog that hops, the bird that sings
Today I am the forest, dark and moody
Full of one, full of all.
I am the meadow, green and full of life not my own
If one is here, all are here, and it is calm.
The pond with the fish swimming, glimmering.
Now a glimmer, now gone.
Tomorrow I am dead.
I am every root digging curled into the damp ground
Dark and confined, not breathing
The wetness seeps through me, eroding me in the silence.
I once was a word.
Then I was every word.
Soon I became every language.
The words flew about, here my arm, there my leg.
I was everywhere and nowhere at once.
The world listened, the audience applauded.
I am the audience, mute, enraptured. The words become notes, the sentences music. I am awed by all the black and white, stunned by the noise and the silence. Bewildered by the softs and louds, the expressiveness mixed with technique. The music enthralls me. I am in a trance.
Then suddenly I am gone.
I am dissolved into the air, being breathed in
by every living thing.
Today I am a child.
I cry for everything because that is all I know how to do.
I eat the world, trying to understand it.
I ask questions.
I love questions because questions help me
understand.
I look up to you, and down on you all the same.
Watching everything you do with a critical eye.
A sponge. Soaking in all the world.
Still able to find the joy of living, needing no purpose.
Today I am a child. Tomorrow I am me.
They are one and the same.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 8:04 PM UTC
I fall in love with strangers on the train.
The descent as quick as the commute,
Our eyes meet and it takes a glance
And I have fallen in love with the way you smile.
With the colour of your eyes,
And the way your lashes crown them,
With the expressiveness of your brows,
And the way I seem to drown in them.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 2:57 AM UTC
As I PLAY Him like a musical instrument…I can feel His arousal grow beneath my digits. To really master this instrument, you must play with feeling, emotion, and expressiveness & practice will promote & improve quality…by using the entire horn, upper & lower case can be excellent for developing a sense of pleasure and improving lengthened & hardened quality. I would recommend some kind of thoughtful approach to playing this implement…work out an agreeable exercise and use it consistently. Listen to what you are doing, hear how the tone in His moans change in key from the way you caress it. If need be make small adjustments and observe. Practice slowly at first, and work it up to a faster tempo…until His notes trickle down His tool & His groans play out like a beautiful symphony.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
Pretend to be crazy so you can get away
with doing what's right.
Remove yourself from situations where
you have trouble being and feeling your
true self.
Decrease your connection with anything
that tends to demean your spirit, shrink
your lust for life , limit your freedom,
ignore your soul, compromise your
integrity, inhibit your self-expressiveness.
Love your enemies in case your friends
turn out to be jerks.
Whoever you're longing for has been
changed by your pursuit of them. They are
different from what they were when you
felt the first pangs of desire.
To make them yours, then, you'll have to
modify your ideas about them.
Be careful what you wish for because if your
wish does materialize, it will require you to
change in ways you didn't foresee.
Give yourself another chance, pretend your
wounds are exotic tatoos. Jon York 2022
Jun 14, 2022
Jun 14, 2022 at 12:00 PM UTC
A Creative Nobody
I’m a creative nobody.
A follower of movie star,
Celebrity,
Biography,
Notable awards and trophies.
Here sit I,
A reasonable credential of activity;
Some published books, (19 so far)
No royalties,
Musician, yogin, writer, poet
(some other diverse roles that show it)
Still, I go unrecognised,
(well, some inconsequential prizes).
Writing daily,
In my eighties,
Fueled energy,
Heightened creativity.
There must be meaning in originality;
Expressiveness, creative skills
That over-match all other ills.
To be a nobody’s not all that bad,
A gladdening in all the rest
Feels sort of, kind of, one might say -
And pretty much the VERY best!
A Creative Nobody 5.15.2021 The Processes; Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover, Corwin
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 6:08 AM UTC
Long live all the magic we made.
Hiding in small spaces making out, feeling each others bodies, tasting each other.
Both of us sneaking into a bathroom at stores in broad daylight, locking the door and going to work on each other. Making out on the couch in your home while your father was in the room just around the corner watching TV on his recliner.
I loved those 60's days', we were so young and so much in love.
We tried to run from our love but our souls craved this magic.
Joy is not the absence of chaos and suffering. Joy is proof that chaos and suffering don't have to be the only things that exist.
Increase your connection with everything that lifts your spirit, expands your reality, nourishes your soul, supports your integrity, honors your reverence, deepens your self expressiveness and helps you keep in touch and harmonize with who and what you love.
Denying yourself joy doesn't improve the world - it only depletes you. Do what makes your soul shine.
Jon York 2025
Mar 24, 2025
Mar 24, 2025 at 4:45 PM UTC