"fantasist" poems - Hello Poetry

Blah Blah Blah! In a blaze of anger I exploded. His personal torment, He created for himself. I told the world a pack of truth. About the sheep in lupine garb. Dressed not in a sauce of mint. Inedible, Toxic to the end. Darling, your good friends left. Go curl up and die. My friendship expelled at last. My heart is fixed. Go have a blast, Poetic fantasist. Straight from the heart of ex romantic. For I am not to be destroyed. Annoyed once by his drunken rants. His narcissism. The fairy tale he decried. The one so truly self absorbed. Stuck in syndrome, Peter Pan. Expelled his faeces. Only way that I know how. Wrote my heart out. Demon exorcised. Care not, should I be cursed. Now i'm gone. Guess what, I'm fine! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

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Nov 7, 2013

Nov 7, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC

olivia-kent

Blah Blah Blah!

Blah Blah Blah! In a blaze of anger I exploded. His personal torment, He created for himself. I told the world a pack of truth. About the sheep in lupine garb. Dressed not in a sauce of mint. Inedible, Toxic to the end. Darling, your good friends left. Go curl up and die. My friendship expelled at last. My heart is fixed. Go have a blast, Poetic fantasist. Straight from the heart of ex romantic. For I am not to be destroyed. Annoyed once by his drunken rants. His narcissism. The fairy tale he decried. The one so truly self absorbed. Stuck in syndrome, Peter Pan. Expelled his faeces. Only way that I know how. Wrote my heart out. Demon exorcised. Care not, should I be cursed. Now i'm gone. Guess what, I'm fine! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

34

confined to four blank walls my whole life my soul untethered, my hands chained to walls escaping through my own mind time after time wondering what the outside world must look like I’ve always been a dreamer, a romantic, a fantasist I try to escape, I fail, I try again my legs are ****** and my abdomen scarred there are marks of defeat on my face and a fire burning in my eyes for no life is truly lived if it is not lived free and no death is truly death, if it sets you free so burn me to ashes and turn me to flame then scatter me across the globe may tulips grow from my empty eye sockets and roses between my ribs may apple trees grow from my fingers and old ferns from my neck sprinkle me in the deepest river and toss me in the valleys of snow empty me into the soil and let me grow and once that is done, I will finally be able to see the world I’ve always dreamt of coming to me in death I will find my living and in death I will find my peace *light me on fire and set me free*

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Apr 22, 2015

Apr 22, 2015 at 3:56 AM UTC

blindsight

ashes to ashes, dust to dust

confined to four blank walls my whole life my soul untethered, my hands chained to walls escaping through my own mind time after time wondering what the outside world must look like I’ve always been a dreamer, a romantic, a fantasist I try to escape, I fail, I try again my legs are ****** and my abdomen scarred there are marks of defeat on my face and a fire burning in my eyes for no life is truly lived if it is not lived free and no death is truly death, if it sets you free so burn me to ashes and turn me to flame then scatter me across the globe may tulips grow from my empty eye sockets and roses between my ribs may apple trees grow from my fingers and old ferns from my neck sprinkle me in the deepest river and toss me in the valleys of snow empty me into the soil and let me grow and once that is done, I will finally be able to see the world I’ve always dreamt of coming to me in death I will find my living and in death I will find my peace *light me on fire and set me free*

26

Distraction! The skirting board is alive. Last year's grit at the back of a desk; you have a story to write, a good friend to deceive, phone calls to make to indifferent ears. Dirt accumulates, black algae in the carpet, and nothing on your mind. There is an ****** in the sidelines, it will have to wait – a soap opera, a bath of salt, a supply of coffee: catalyst for the morning, some razor blade, a brand new face. “A necessity!”she drools, a fragrant potion, whilst children cry and die in Gaza. The cigarette falters in its promise, the fantasist friend, last year's prophet; you have a life to live but that can wait another year. Love sits in your mouth, fat accumulation; tasteless reprieve from hunger, a motion- anything to escape stillness, immediacy. Men in drag lift their skirts to the screen, the fool is on the hill, the billboard; a dream of fame litters your focus, your self-hood. There is a pyramid built for better people, all these old institutions – indefatigable ladder! The rings of tea caramelise on the table, married to the places you have been before. Elusive enterprise – unfulfilled spark, you suffocate in oxygen, heat lost to air, embrace yesterday's comfort, tomorrow's snare. Take another day inside this indistinguishable prison. The walls are glass. Eligible, you vote for Hope. For the drug of the future, a disbursed present for minimum wage, accepting slave; your eventual grave.

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Jan 9, 2015

Jan 9, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC

Edward-Coles

The Part-Time Procrastinator

Distraction! The skirting board is alive. Last year's grit at the back of a desk; you have a story to write, a good friend to deceive, phone calls to make to indifferent ears. Dirt accumulates, black algae in the carpet, and nothing on your mind. There is an ****** in the sidelines, it will have to wait – a soap opera, a bath of salt, a supply of coffee: catalyst for the morning, some razor blade, a brand new face. “A necessity!”she drools, a fragrant potion, whilst children cry and die in Gaza. The cigarette falters in its promise, the fantasist friend, last year's prophet; you have a life to live but that can wait another year. Love sits in your mouth, fat accumulation; tasteless reprieve from hunger, a motion- anything to escape stillness, immediacy. Men in drag lift their skirts to the screen, the fool is on the hill, the billboard; a dream of fame litters your focus, your self-hood. There is a pyramid built for better people, all these old institutions – indefatigable ladder! The rings of tea caramelise on the table, married to the places you have been before. Elusive enterprise – unfulfilled spark, you suffocate in oxygen, heat lost to air, embrace yesterday's comfort, tomorrow's snare. Take another day inside this indistinguishable prison. The walls are glass. Eligible, you vote for Hope. For the drug of the future, a disbursed present for minimum wage, accepting slave; your eventual grave.

35

(Hive Wired) As wires round the world get lighter and thinner the autoscroll feeds you fourty-nine homicides from desktops at noon to plasma at dinner the auto-cue commits sixty-five more crimes. Mad and red in the face, you picture yourself pace by pace, walking the span of the kitchen but the network fail to mention the other seven billion who kept living their life devoid of such sinning. Typhoonous winds and hurricane fever head out the window, yell for your kingdom, yell so we hear you ’til you’re hoarse and unkempt. yell 'til your sad old neighbour get’s hell bent. Step back to the desk and slam on your keyboard tell all that you know that there’s more to life than watching the ’strife of idiocy’ part two thousand and something, there’s more to this world than serving a system; there’s more to a system than the buds at the top, the roots don’t need trimming the buds must be stopped from dying and rotting and killing the crop. Still glum? Relax in your favourite shop! With a roof overhead and your screen polished down forget the anger, the strife, and fantasist who yelled. tip-tap the day away, earn and pay away that frown forget how lonely you are and buy some new health. Tip-tap-a-tip-tap-a-tip-tap away the evening and next day Now you live vicariously through social media you cannot stop networking, lonelier… lonelier. Connections you make get quicker, and quicker. You pick and you carve a residual image. ‘Life is the greatest’ on appearance the best fools fool themselves, it’s addictive post after post you build up a rhythm. Second life, third face, prosodical features: hive mind rewired you’re speechlessly grinning Staring at screens you’re now silent at dinner, your diary entries get sparser and sparser you forget appearances are a farcical demeanour sixth chord diminutive, false life fever: your square -eyed and ill groomed head sits on a hunchback miser, the hive mind keeps ticking you keep getting wiser.

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May 26, 2014

May 26, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC

zacolian

The Network Pt. I

(Hive Wired) As wires round the world get lighter and thinner the autoscroll feeds you fourty-nine homicides from desktops at noon to plasma at dinner the auto-cue commits sixty-five more crimes. Mad and red in the face, you picture yourself pace by pace, walking the span of the kitchen but the network fail to mention the other seven billion who kept living their life devoid of such sinning. Typhoonous winds and hurricane fever head out the window, yell for your kingdom, yell so we hear you ’til you’re hoarse and unkempt. yell 'til your sad old neighbour get’s hell bent. Step back to the desk and slam on your keyboard tell all that you know that there’s more to life than watching the ’strife of idiocy’ part two thousand and something, there’s more to this world than serving a system; there’s more to a system than the buds at the top, the roots don’t need trimming the buds must be stopped from dying and rotting and killing the crop. Still glum? Relax in your favourite shop! With a roof overhead and your screen polished down forget the anger, the strife, and fantasist who yelled. tip-tap the day away, earn and pay away that frown forget how lonely you are and buy some new health. Tip-tap-a-tip-tap-a-tip-tap away the evening and next day Now you live vicariously through social media you cannot stop networking, lonelier… lonelier. Connections you make get quicker, and quicker. You pick and you carve a residual image. ‘Life is the greatest’ on appearance the best fools fool themselves, it’s addictive post after post you build up a rhythm. Second life, third face, prosodical features: hive mind rewired you’re speechlessly grinning Staring at screens you’re now silent at dinner, your diary entries get sparser and sparser you forget appearances are a farcical demeanour sixth chord diminutive, false life fever: your square -eyed and ill groomed head sits on a hunchback miser, the hive mind keeps ticking you keep getting wiser.

41

Insanity Is how it shall be Now that normality Has departed, Long gone And uncharted That line in the sand It did expand It swallowed whole Every unstable soul Every extremist Every fanatical fantasist Our morals drowning In a sea of demons An ocean of dystopian dreams, Where we now lust and embrace Such ludicrous extremes, Vivid vivisections Of intricate intersections This alternative in place Wears a mask on it's face A disguise of lies With a desire to despise A parade of a pompous parody To control through chaos And manipulate humanity Careful how you tread And from whose hand you are fed What you seek as innocence Is ***** under the influence Drugged and deranged Compassion exchanged On the stock market floated And for all of this , This life of inadequacy We stood in lines and voted

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Jan 26, 2018

Jan 26, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC

nico-papayiannis

the lines are blurred

Insanity Is how it shall be Now that normality Has departed, Long gone And uncharted That line in the sand It did expand It swallowed whole Every unstable soul Every extremist Every fanatical fantasist Our morals drowning In a sea of demons An ocean of dystopian dreams, Where we now lust and embrace Such ludicrous extremes, Vivid vivisections Of intricate intersections This alternative in place Wears a mask on it's face A disguise of lies With a desire to despise A parade of a pompous parody To control through chaos And manipulate humanity Careful how you tread And from whose hand you are fed What you seek as innocence Is ***** under the influence Drugged and deranged Compassion exchanged On the stock market floated And for all of this , This life of inadequacy We stood in lines and voted

36

A fantasist in her own She built her best and her worst, Staying awake by the fire She wrote tales of her cursed fights, Lost in profound thoughts, She found her peace she never got,

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC

annie07

Peace Within

A fantasist in her own She built her best and her worst, Staying awake by the fire She wrote tales of her cursed fights, Lost in profound thoughts, She found her peace she never got,

6

There is a man with a grave in his head and he wanders from town to town, singing songs of crows and death and God. Some say he is an undertaker, some say he is a vessel of the devil, but they all agree that he means them harm. There is a man with blood on his name. A child of six finds him by the mercat cross with a stare that chills his brittle bones. The sun rises up with a limp and casts his shadow long and gaunt and fragile and black. He offers out a smile but it grimaces and forms a dark, crooked sneer. There will be death here by noon. Church bells and raised voices gather above the rooftops and descend as black rain, like tar, sticky and oily. They have made their choice. Weapons are gathered and war songs penned and faces painted blue and red. There will be death within the hour. A confrontation of silence and conflagration. He sits there, still, momentarily lost in the warning call of a fantasist with a pen too small for his ideas. The crowd before him swells even further, nervous anger and shaking knives. He stands up quick, and the villagers twitch as a single entity. He holds up one bony finger. One body. One is all he needs. There is a bloodbath. He sits alone surrounded by people, blood forming patterns in the grass and gravel, like Point de Venise. He clicks an impressed tut and takes his belongings off his cart. It is too small today. He will have to make several trips. And all the while, hour after hour, day after day, that smile will never leave his scarred face.

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Mar 21, 2016

Mar 21, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC

michael-j-simpson

There Will Be Death

There is a man with a grave in his head and he wanders from town to town, singing songs of crows and death and God. Some say he is an undertaker, some say he is a vessel of the devil, but they all agree that he means them harm. There is a man with blood on his name. A child of six finds him by the mercat cross with a stare that chills his brittle bones. The sun rises up with a limp and casts his shadow long and gaunt and fragile and black. He offers out a smile but it grimaces and forms a dark, crooked sneer. There will be death here by noon. Church bells and raised voices gather above the rooftops and descend as black rain, like tar, sticky and oily. They have made their choice. Weapons are gathered and war songs penned and faces painted blue and red. There will be death within the hour. A confrontation of silence and conflagration. He sits there, still, momentarily lost in the warning call of a fantasist with a pen too small for his ideas. The crowd before him swells even further, nervous anger and shaking knives. He stands up quick, and the villagers twitch as a single entity. He holds up one bony finger. One body. One is all he needs. There is a bloodbath. He sits alone surrounded by people, blood forming patterns in the grass and gravel, like Point de Venise. He clicks an impressed tut and takes his belongings off his cart. It is too small today. He will have to make several trips. And all the while, hour after hour, day after day, that smile will never leave his scarred face.

48

Did the clues betray the fantasist from Uncle Bulgaria on the Cornwall move alas his mother dies yearly twice so far anyway as the wind cries liar but lets take a specialist narcissist too busy planning a wedding on that train from Vietnam to volunteer in Uganda or Gambia as voices speak in head been there done it Mr Revisionist he was at the barricade at the Bastille hoisting the tricolour he writes as ladies swoon he's done them all our Chamberlain is now Revolutionist fighting for a New World order on keyboard after he left the RAF do let tell worthless bullies the clues are in plain sight the contempt is resounding even Buddha knows that

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Apr 6, 2022

Apr 6, 2022 at 8:03 PM UTC

yenson

small man big coward.....

Did the clues betray the fantasist from Uncle Bulgaria on the Cornwall move alas his mother dies yearly twice so far anyway as the wind cries liar but lets take a specialist narcissist too busy planning a wedding on that train from Vietnam to volunteer in Uganda or Gambia as voices speak in head been there done it Mr Revisionist he was at the barricade at the Bastille hoisting the tricolour he writes as ladies swoon he's done them all our Chamberlain is now Revolutionist fighting for a New World order on keyboard after he left the RAF do let tell worthless bullies the clues are in plain sight the contempt is resounding even Buddha knows that

22

There stands our Novel Chamberlain Xenophobic uber-prat with top dog pretensions a weak chine coward showing profile unrefined goggles dark, black shirted.shameless bully craves attentions parody of a man mired in semblance exuding puerile ignorance fine insipid pale republican Tonton Macoute compensating his limitations There stands our novel Chamberlain a oaf with mildew loaf, the ubiquitous Brown shirt warrior he's here, there pontificating absurd prose worthy of disdain cringing vocabulary, warped voyeuristic styles, he straddles Parlio emitting odious **** of a mentally deranged finding shelter in de rain basking in mock praises from acolytes and accounts in his alter-egos There stands our Nonentity Chamberlain the charlatan of all poetic sides and raconteur un- magnifique he's eaten in Laos, slept i Siberia, climbed the Laurent and lion slain been all over the world, bedded women from China to Mozambique he is a trialist, finalist, racialist, specialist, a fantasist, all but not plain as he sits in ***** drawers in a dingy room masking his life oblique There stands our 'no-mark' Chamberlain dark shades and black T-shirt a poser fantasizing he is a G-man look behind the facade and see the under-endowed troll insane a coward, a nasty, witless, brain addled yob and **** fresh in a can show me the confident wholesome being who does like this knave a fake con artist, buffoon, with the pretentious guise so much in frame

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Aug 20, 2019

Aug 20, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC

yenson

The Zen with short **** syndrome

There stands our Novel Chamberlain Xenophobic uber-prat with top dog pretensions a weak chine coward showing profile unrefined goggles dark, black shirted.shameless bully craves attentions parody of a man mired in semblance exuding puerile ignorance fine insipid pale republican Tonton Macoute compensating his limitations There stands our novel Chamberlain a oaf with mildew loaf, the ubiquitous Brown shirt warrior he's here, there pontificating absurd prose worthy of disdain cringing vocabulary, warped voyeuristic styles, he straddles Parlio emitting odious **** of a mentally deranged finding shelter in de rain basking in mock praises from acolytes and accounts in his alter-egos There stands our Nonentity Chamberlain the charlatan of all poetic sides and raconteur un- magnifique he's eaten in Laos, slept i Siberia, climbed the Laurent and lion slain been all over the world, bedded women from China to Mozambique he is a trialist, finalist, racialist, specialist, a fantasist, all but not plain as he sits in ***** drawers in a dingy room masking his life oblique There stands our 'no-mark' Chamberlain dark shades and black T-shirt a poser fantasizing he is a G-man look behind the facade and see the under-endowed troll insane a coward, a nasty, witless, brain addled yob and **** fresh in a can show me the confident wholesome being who does like this knave a fake con artist, buffoon, with the pretentious guise so much in frame

24

Whenever I got serious, and told you that I just want us, nothing else now matters and only you can flatter or shatter everything that is mine. You stayed like you are mine, until no other guy gave you any sign of interest without another thought, you broke my trust, it was unjust, felt like it was out of lust. Was it all my fantasy, couldn’t you behave with a little decency? When we started, when our hearts and sorrows parted, you told me that you would never change, that it would never get this strange, or is it some kind of revenge? It didn’t have to end like this, 3 years ago, being together was the only bliss, and oh my! that kiss. Can I say that I still love you, One day, you will forget everything and say, Fantasist? Who? Even then I will be within you somewhere, my voice will faint and words will blare, that’s when you will care. My thoughts and words will blend, but at that time, we will end.

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Apr 19, 2017

Apr 19, 2017 at 1:21 PM UTC

FantasistRPAN

How will we end?

Whenever I got serious, and told you that I just want us, nothing else now matters and only you can flatter or shatter everything that is mine. You stayed like you are mine, until no other guy gave you any sign of interest without another thought, you broke my trust, it was unjust, felt like it was out of lust. Was it all my fantasy, couldn’t you behave with a little decency? When we started, when our hearts and sorrows parted, you told me that you would never change, that it would never get this strange, or is it some kind of revenge? It didn’t have to end like this, 3 years ago, being together was the only bliss, and oh my! that kiss. Can I say that I still love you, One day, you will forget everything and say, Fantasist? Who? Even then I will be within you somewhere, my voice will faint and words will blare, that’s when you will care. My thoughts and words will blend, but at that time, we will end.

23

why even attack, slyly creep under or even parasitical nibble at a figurine that in 100 years will ( gain impetus akin to an Alexander the Great... ? a joke of a surname... ) when you have all the grey areas of an erwin lambert to mind... the joke that was ****** that became the mythological romance akin to Attila... the congested mouth of human history, lacerated, cancerous, tooth-rot and a tongue of gangrene, nothing, but theatre, surviving; give it 100 years... and no sooner the moths that might agitate the flame... but all they grey-mass-in-between... ihre vater, die "wenigscherz"... how these children sum up the evil in one but man... peddlestooled into the lime from the cameo... dictator helpless before dictatorial mass of bureucrats... hier! hier ihre eisenvorhang! break the rank of the patron of bureucrats (herr Kant)... and place the sztylet of Brutus, with a semi-patricide scorn into... a nail within the hanging frame of a dandy crux... a feeling akin to: castrating a pedegree Alsatian: shining teeth... pumped teeth... impersonal the gnashing... most of the time i imagine myself reincarnated in a theatre of a castrated rottweiler... making stretched-clown-masks from strangers' skins of childrens' faces... just for kicks... mind you... apparently the N.S.A. has all the personal data briefing whether or not... i'm jihadi material... or just a fantasist / fetishist... good to know that even I, do not have knowledge, of a minority report; must have whisked passed me on a feline whim of teasing a whisker before a fetish for: leisuring a Mexican in cleaning a dilemma's worth of a paw; prepare th mince... an obese exhibit with Alzheimer's... during warfare, war dogs & dogs require the most contaminated meats, to add to their expected ferociousness... ha ha... the Nazis didn't insaminate their subjects with feline ***** why is Frankenstein so pale... and transgenderism, so, norm?

0

May 18, 2018

May 18, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

(erwin lambert) / wenigscherz

why even attack, slyly creep under or even parasitical nibble at a figurine that in 100 years will ( gain impetus akin to an Alexander the Great... ? a joke of a surname... ) when you have all the grey areas of an erwin lambert to mind... the joke that was ****** that became the mythological romance akin to Attila... the congested mouth of human history, lacerated, cancerous, tooth-rot and a tongue of gangrene, nothing, but theatre, surviving; give it 100 years... and no sooner the moths that might agitate the flame... but all they grey-mass-in-between... ihre vater, die "wenigscherz"... how these children sum up the evil in one but man... peddlestooled into the lime from the cameo... dictator helpless before dictatorial mass of bureucrats... hier! hier ihre eisenvorhang! break the rank of the patron of bureucrats (herr Kant)... and place the sztylet of Brutus, with a semi-patricide scorn into... a nail within the hanging frame of a dandy crux... a feeling akin to: castrating a pedegree Alsatian: shining teeth... pumped teeth... impersonal the gnashing... most of the time i imagine myself reincarnated in a theatre of a castrated rottweiler... making stretched-clown-masks from strangers' skins of childrens' faces... just for kicks... mind you... apparently the N.S.A. has all the personal data briefing whether or not... i'm jihadi material... or just a fantasist / fetishist... good to know that even I, do not have knowledge, of a minority report; must have whisked passed me on a feline whim of teasing a whisker before a fetish for: leisuring a Mexican in cleaning a dilemma's worth of a paw; prepare th mince... an obese exhibit with Alzheimer's... during warfare, war dogs & dogs require the most contaminated meats, to add to their expected ferociousness... ha ha... the Nazis didn't insaminate their subjects with feline ***** why is Frankenstein so pale... and transgenderism, so, norm?

88