"exteriors" poems
This poem was written after watching a few hours of slam poetry on Youtube. Let me know what you think...it's my first shot at slam poetry.
There are so many words flowing around out there about the big girls. The thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls. About their plush and soft exteriors, their abundant backsides, their willingness to accept themselves and their hopefulness that others will do the same. Their….thereness.
They are beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
They are beautiful.
But what about the skinny girls?
The small girls with petite builds and large hearts and an aversion to the word short. The size two and under girls, the drive thru can’t gain a pound girls, the I AM NOT ANNOREXIC OR BULLEMIC girls.
The girls who will always be referred to as “pixie-like” or “waif-like” or “twig-like.” The perfect model body girls that all of the other girls hate…because of their lack of fat.
Aren’t they beautiful?
The girls with the size 32 bust line, the girls who, at 24, still shop in the junior sections of department stores. The girls who, regardless of their age, their strengths and weaknesses, their experiences, heartaches and joys, disappointments and triumphs, their want or need for life and love will always look like they missed a meal or gave it back purposefully with the intent of becoming even thinner. The girls who, no matter how ******* HARD they try, cannot even weigh 100 lbs soaking ******* wet.
Aren’t they beautiful?
The big girls have to search and search for cute and **** and attractive clothes because of their size. Guess what? So do the skinny girls. Do you know ******* hard it is to find a pair of pants with a size zero waist and a 34 inch leg? To finally find an extra small shirt that doesn’t have one of the top three cartoon characters of the time plastered across the front?
All I’m saying is yes, the thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls…
They are beautiful.
But ****** so am I.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 11:58 PM UTC
I'd like to introduce myself to you
One letter, one syllable, one word at a time
I would like to take things slow with you
Play get to know with you
Like I've never been allowed to do before
I want to capture those butterflies
And release them into skies of us
Me and that one
My Mr. Right that has paid your attention in full
That can simmer in the quite between our glances
He would never waste our time on second chances
Because we are what time well spent is
I would like to introduce myself to you
Spell me out with big doe eyes
That only you can read into
That only you would take the years to understand
And looking back
You see me for who I am
Unadorned by outside exteriors
I never feel vulnerable with you
You cloak me in the reassurance that you are here
Here in each moment that I need you
I would like to introduce myself to you
Planting memories that we can sip on in our bad days
Locked in gazes that I don't care to escape
I can't wait to meet you, or reintroduce
I would like to introduce myself to you
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 6:07 PM UTC
train myself to write anywhere and at any time...
as commissioned by ms. melan
~'~'~'~'~
so I, being a being,
a poet who carries his mind scheming
with him:
drags along his body and soul,
just in case:
that his hands might feel the touch of
beauty, skin and beyond,
the exteriors of his interiors,
to feel, to feel, to feel
every one of his surfaces,
the reality of his peculiar real
his eyes so one can envision the unimaginable,
and thus, never be satisfied,
for all is
always new,
beyond original
that his ugly, ungainly ears,
may never miss the sound of his tripping & falling
head!over!heels with the realization,
he just might be foolishly
in love
the tastes of life's living that
make his pulse race,
crease his smiling face,
causing his blood pressure so high
he pleads to surrender,
just begging to let his tongue
survive
and smells that arouse,
producing & promising
words proud & profound,
that have yet to succeed
in capturing
the fullness
of the
special musk odor
that masks
allure of attraction
no, not a lot to ask for…
5:26am
SunSep13
two zero two five
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 5:35 AM UTC
You walked in
a pool of sharks
knowing where the good fish is
and the plankton floats
You were floating in
a great ocean of possibilities
some so foreign, your eyes dilated
some so familiar you felt elated
You slid next to great whales of knowledge
and shook the tentacles with wise octopi
with strands of experience
You got bitten by piranhas of isolation
and even bled internally from bumping shoulders
with beautiful heartless corals
Then one day you met a seashell and her friend
you marveled at the intricate art of nature
and became friends
this time you had the courage to knock
Not all hard exteriors
reflect tough
personalities
You just
had to
knock
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
A man's ego is a thick wall
Covering his vulnerable soul,
Protects him from shivering
From the outside cold.
It is his coach, and his captain
As well as his life's good coach,
Protecting the his exteriors
From his fragility he never boasts.
As soft as the clouds wandering
Through the dust of the city life,
Same as the careful veins
Embedded in a womans' soft heart.
Snugged in his vicious tongue
With every word in his gauntlet
Warming his soul away
From any dark and cold blankets.
Like diamonds you try to dismantle
And see him break at once,
As he snaps to put the pieces back
But the cracks can't be undone.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
I am the
SAME
as you
I work in your community
I live in your world
I contribute
(too much)
to Capitalism
by frequenting your local stores
and buying
WAY
more items than
I need
I vote for your President
your Congress
your Governor,
I participate in politics because
I care
about the way
our world
functions.
And yet I'm not equal
I'm not "the same."
As if any of us even know what being
"the same"
means anymore
When I dated men you
ALL
applauded me, praised me
Even when I dated total
********
people said,
"Well you're just too good for him.
But you're such a great person for
being able to see past his
'rough' exterior"
I saw past
SO MANY
'rough exteriors'
And I was miserable
And I forced myself to
PRETEND
to be happy.
And loved
And love-ING.
But then
SHE
walked into my life.
SHE
had been there for awhile,
but I shoved the feelings to the side
because they're
NOT RIGHT
NOT
acceptable
NOT
real
NOT
important
Be with a man they say.
And I followed their rules.
Which lead to alcoholism
drugs
depression
suicide after suicide after suicide,
never
accomplished.
Which reinforced the fact that
my life would be full of
Failure.
And then came the kiss
(when my lips met her perfect lips)
that opened my eyes,
and changed my life.
Now, I may be
Unequal
Rejected
Frowned upon
BUT
There is no frown upon
my face.
For my world is
Complete
Authetic
Rewarding
Real
And I wouldn't change that
to cultivate the appearance of
Equal.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
What is this?
A jacket
But something so simple can mean so much
It can hold me together when i get mad
Make someone look like a lumberjack
Though how could I rely on a lumberjack?
A jacket?
I can’t
I know this
None the less
They mean so much to me
The tough exteriors
Soft insides
All in all
I believe a lumberjack saved me today
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
~~~
perhaps.
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery
leave that to the better ones.
cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming
the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.
these exteriors are comprehendable.
don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.
Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant
question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.
can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Why do people hate the rain?
Is it just because they get wet?
Or is it how water makes their clothes transparent?
Isn’t transparency a good thing in life?
I like how rain shows the worst in most people
How moods started to swing all over
When memories kept inside start to flow out
In times the rain reminds us of the past we want to forget
When memories are kept aside
Forced to be forgotten or erased by self-induced amnesia
No hindrance is overcome
we dig shallow graves for our rotting corpses inside
I wish I could be the rain
Wanting to touch peoples heart
Making hard exteriors soft like waterfalls
Helping them make rolling waves calm
I belived that when people are at their worst they are most beautiful
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
imagine a world without mirrors
there'd be no judgment of others based on ourselves
and no judgment of ourselves based on others
imagine a world without mirrors
our souls would be the tools with which we'd perceive
not our eyes
imagine a world without mirrors
scratches, marks, burns and scars
would be treasured as symbols of strength and sacrifice
imagine a world without mirrors
we'd look deeper than the mere facades of our exteriors
into the intrinsic complexities and marvels of the heart
imagine a world without mirrors
our childhood innocence would remain
but our naiveties would fall away
imagine a world without mirrors
we'd behold our sisters and brothers in grace and awe
we'd behold them with love
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.
The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely
in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in organ-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.
Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.
In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
I rub off my makeup from the day
And look at the real me
It's the me that I don't let anyone see.
I wonder when this became normal,
When i learned that the real me
Isn't quite good enough
and really never will be.
I walk around in public
And see all of the beautiful girls
I'm surrounded by every day
I often have to remind myself
They are all wearing makeup too;
I cannot compare their made up faces
To my bare one.
That's when i begin to hate myself
I hate myself for only seeing the
Beauty on their exterior, when I know
There is so much more to people than that.
I hate myself for comparing myself to them,
I hate that it has become normal,
And i hate that it has become normal,
And i hate that every one else does it too.
The day we learn to look past each other's exteriors
Is the day that everyone else will too.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
*unheeded as they live
quietly by themselves
easy smiles flowing
banter chatter of
familiar things,
anything out of the
ordinary troubles
them for days after,
furrowed foreheads,
hushed exteriors,
slowly then life
seeps back to
their features,
that engaging goodwill
of generations,
of gentle demeanour
fragile as glass yet
companions affable,
little whiffs of honey
to the human hive,
a vine wall pattern
tribal's thumping
multi-drum song,
unassuming in
celebration,
in the world's
gather, among
greed-gathering
plush pushing
***** blokes
soft spread gentle
wounded crumpled
sing-song trample
firefly twinkle
simple people...*
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
Running away from angels
Leave us be black, cold and hard,
We have no need for soft interiors,
Only a need for hard exteriors,
Running away from angels,
We are as strong as any man,
We are mistaken and misleading women,
Who have no fear, no power steer,
No crowds can hide us, we cannot be quelled,
For we are not for angels, we shall not take flight,
We will remain on this ground, raise this game, we shall fight.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
Matted autumn leaves cling
To every surface
The cold concrete streets
The orangey red brick walls
The chipped facade exteriors
Of road lamps much like me
The peeling rusty paint
Dotted by bits of dampened foliage
Little knotted up black things
While road lamps don’t give a ****
I have to pick them off my clammy skin
And then they get under my nails
They are abundant right now
Like all the other frustrations of my daily life
Sneaky little ********
The air is incredibly damp
It’s thick with fog
Carrying with it a familiarly pungent
But ever revolting scent
Of a funky little diner down the street
That makes my freckled nose wrinkle
Reminiscent of the scent of past disgusts
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 5:11 PM UTC
No problems, just theories
and excuses both lame and creative
extravagance in rare form,
perfect, really
if you wish to boil down the exteriors and denature the proteins
fleshy and energized, totally organic
like a Tropicana Sunday
complete with yellow Voltswagons and STDs.
Why speak of such things?
Shock value isn't worth much,
just a fist in the ***
if that's what you're into
and even if you're not
(especially if you're not)
because then you can't appreciate a good smack when it's deserved
and you begin to feel lonely
like a kid who can do no wrong
so never enjoyed the beauty of time out
only the isolation of magnets on the refridgerator,
domesticity a promise but not an end
only the beginning, a cycle of strife that is fully necessary and advantageous
when placed on the plates of the right eating bunch,
and goodness it's a lovely night
because the stars are still shaped like those homely spoons and beasts
and all the world's at the feet of the manor's Lords and Ladies
such wonderfully pitiful people
though can't blame them for much
only for being so flea- bitten and haughty
when the serfs are just as alive.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
The trick is to deeply inhale,
Loosen your inhibitions and let go,
You don't know if you'll be saved
Or you'll fall, still-
Let go,
What's the point of everything, really?
Of polite smiles and sniggers behind backs-
Of storms within and silent exteriors-
Of days of drudgery and painful nights-
Of worldly desires that forever grow in height?
The only sensible thing in the world
Is the nonsensical, the vague, the free state of
Nothingness
That you were born in, you don't remember but
That was the most serene, most quiet,
Most happy you ever were,
Retreat to that innocence, what stops you?
Goals? There's no end to them anyway.
People? They'll walk out anyway.
Comfort? It won't last anyway.
Leave it all before it leaves you,
Surrender yourself into
The all-enveloping arms
Of the endless blue skies,
Breathe in freedom and jump
Even though you don't have wings,
Even though gravity appears menacing,
And even though no one taught you how to-
The moment you'll let go,
Life will catch you,
Embrace you, cradle you, lift you high-
And trust me, dear reader,
Then you'll fly,
Even though no one taught you how to,
You'll fly...
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Matted autumn leaves cling
To every surface
The cold concrete streets
The chipped facade exteriors
Of road lamps and me
Hugging my clammy skin
Little knotted up black things
That I have to pick off my skin
Only to have them get under my nails?
Those are abundant right now
The air is incredibly damp
It's thick with fog
Carrying a familiarly pungent
But ever disgusting scent
Of a funky little diner down the street
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
The Thew Of Phantasmagoria
<for Sanders Maurice Foulke III>
The Thew Of Phantasmagoria
the muscles of the brain, design bridges, author poems, obviously
the strongest force upon the Earth, whence & where the powerful
coiling of our mortal coexistence energies be stored & unleashed
muscles summon previous unknowns, establishing neural connectivity
between colliding galaxies, undiscovered planetary rings, using kinetics
to create a vocabulary for the express purpose of astounding creation
the modest only dare inquire of themselves in wondrous silence
how came this thematic landscape, new language, to escape my
optics, my ken, my viewfinder, purview, essential essence sensories?
the deniers claim magic lanterns, optical illusions, love, par example,
they ascertain, a chemical imbalance stimulates the sensorineural,
mocking those who believe the comet’s tail visible wags its orbital path
this poem abstruse, yet full of truths, a working man’s lunch pail
full of fine china chicanery, fooling those who observe only exteriors,
but we who live on bounded islands recognize safe passages available
when the thew of the phantasmagorical is debunked, acknowledging
that for something to be truly true, it must be agreed upon by two,
thus creating a language clarifying even if it’s punctuated by shadows
621pm 23-2-2020
IP lmn
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 6:29 PM UTC
Locate I love you
In between filling hole remains
and their parting ways
this is something not quite dead but
not quiet in going away either.
It's rough to leave it at a somewhat when
hard exteriors stay untouched.
you have to shave away the edges
Whittle away what was precious and--
And dredge up a rotten throbbing ball of
bumbling nerves stuck with a steady flood
of impatience,
intent on forgetting the final-straw day
their own lives were sent mail-in changes
with marching orders for separation.
A dividing house is due to fold in on itself
and never stops at all.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC
Under an old display of neon lights
two gilded exteriors meet.
Their gold needs to melt
and the lead core bared.
Wilde's prince's lead core didn't melt,
so won't their austere cores.
Their gold melted in the neon haze,
but didn't have the heart
to see their leaden heart
in the bright of the day.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 8:50 AM UTC
Another shattering of illusions,
as I sit here in cocktail mist
and cannabis descent,
staring with guilt at the nicotine gum;
all the time applying lotion
to care only for exteriors.
Gold *** in apple juice,
I unsettle the ice in partial decency.
Half-baked notebooks scatter
amongst the stray tobacco leaves,
neglected books, tablets and glue;
it's little wonder my life has
fallen
apart.
Old jazz queen,
she's rolling trills and cigarettes
and reminding me of my spine,
the way it twists to the bass-line,
sending chakras to bedlam
and returning to me
my recently lost youth.
Keep it off the record,
as I tumble on through another night
of poison and medicine equivalence,
a summum bonum of forget-me-do's
and elimination of both
the future and past.
I clear the leaves from my autumnal porch.
After the dead slate of winter,
I will emerge, sober.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
I wish I could fix the world
One error at a time
But looking past my own wall
With light passing through
Brick exteriors
I am just another thing fixable
But what more can one do
When all hope is gone
When all love is gone
What is there left to live for?
To sink or to let it be
To close eyes or to see
The little pieces left beautiful
Or the things left unsaid
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
caring isn't my first nature, nor is it my second or third
it comes in handy sometimes when i am a balloon and people are trying to burst me
but it works both ways
because it hurts people, you see
my indifference
it cuts them like a hot knife slicing through butter, slicing through their exteriors and wounding their soft insides,
their bones, tendons, ligaments and ribcage can't protect their hearts from my cold touch
and it isn't until everything's done and over with, that i start to care
everyone wants to feel loved, cared for, important
and from me, they want emotions
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC