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All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Each ear another one to lie to
Each mouth another one to feed
We're all but a statistic
And a very ugly one indeed

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Hypocrites in their pedestals
As the sloths complain
The truth is hypothetical
And the self-righteous disdain

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

The sky scraping towers
The roads of traffic and rush
Beauty is only in the papers
And the tip of the artist's brush

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Cold hearts shame the winter
Causing more damage than flood
We are but the earth's splinter
And we hunger for blood

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Tomorrow is but a conjecture
Today is what we're worth
Will our children even have a future?
Or have we aborted them by birth?

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

We have guts for feeling
We have eyes to see
But indifference is more appealing
I hope it's just me

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names
Rj Sep 2015
Okay. I am going to talk now.
And I'm not gonna be poetic
Rhyme, or make lines or stanzas. I'm just gonna talk. Because this is MY life, and MY opinion and this is a website where I can get out MY feelings. And I shouldn't have to feel like putting up a filter. I don't feel all that special, not standing next to some people. I feel like, like I'm not someone that you'd say "wow I like your outfit" or "wow I like your voice". Because guess what. I wear lame tee shirts from football games three years ago with jean shorts because I don't have TIME or money to shop for appealing clothes to where I can express myself. I can't make an aesthetic. My parents are always telling me how much of a selfish person I used to be. So I DONT ASK for clothes anymore. If I did, it would be so out of the ordinary, the answer would be a painful no. But this isn't about clothes. It's about Never being noticed. I swear sometimes I am wearing the invisibility cloak from Harry Potter. I know quite a few people with a list TO THEIR KNEES on how many people they KNOW care about them. People they can say for SURE care about them. My list. Well you can't call two or three people a list can you? Maybe it's because I don't have those characteristics that draw people to me. I don't have that "strong presence". I don't. I am Miranda Kramer. A junior who looks more like a freshman. When I talk, people don't turn their head to look. When I speak, I find over and over again people talk over me. So, naturally, I don't talk as much as I used to. Yes, rejection is a fear of mine, and so is being ignored. Being replaceable. And YES I wrote a poem about this before, but I don't think I can stress enough that I don't have that twinkle in my eye. I don't have the cute smile that lights up the world. I can't list a single thing that makes me unique, yet I know I am. I know everyone is. But is it true or not that some people are more unique than others? Imagine a sapling. A cute, small, unique pine sapling. Now picture that sapling sitting at the root of a giant oak tree. No one sees the sapling anymore do they? Well that's how I feel compared to most everyone else. People who feel loved, who KNOW people care about you, I am so happy you have that list. I hope you keep adding to it. I'll sit here. Holding the pencil in my sweaty hand, anxious, because I can't tell if that person cares about me. Do they? Or am I forgettable? Am I forgettable? Am I? I can't really tell anymore. I can't really tell anymore
Don't read too deep into it. It's just an entry, I haven't written like this in a while. A shoutout to MF for getting me started on this rant with a great poem recently added. Anyways this isn't really for others, it's more for me
VENUS62 Jul 2014
Swaymvar- Wedding! With Translation in English

Kavi, tha khayalon me khoya
Dard-e -dil soch ke roya

Tab Apsara sundarsi hui prakat
Ahista se gayee Kavi ke nikat

Likhte kyun ** kavita hamesha udaas
Racho koi rachna jisme ** harsh-o- ulhas

Ghatne wali hai ghatna avismarniya
Reh jayega baki sub kuch asmarniya

Aney wali hai baraat aaj raat
Yahi kuch gyarah- barah baje ke baad

Chaand ke saath hogi chandni
Sitare layenge jhilmil roshni

Indra layenge varsha ko saath
Varun ayenge thamey badalon ka haath

Suraj layenge bas kiran ek
Teeno mil sajayenge indradhanush anek


Draupadi ke saath honge punch pandav
Shiv bhi karenge nritya tandav

Agni khud karenge havan
Halka sa jhonka denge Pavan

Patton se banegi chudiyan hari
Maang mein mitti hogi lal sindoori

Aasman mein cha jayega kala-neela sa rang
Krishna jab nachenge radha ke sang

Rachegi khoob ras leela wahan
Dekha na hoga kabhi ye jahan

Pakwan har ek hoga anvesh
Bhojan hoga bahut hi vishesh

Srishti banegi ati ati -sundar
Rachegi jab
Ambar aur dharti ka swayamvar!



Translation The Wedding!
The poet was lost in thought
Heartbroken and distraught

When appeared an Apsara ethereal
She touched his shoulder lightly

Why do you write poems full of sorrow
Do write some poems replete with joy

About to happen is an event memorable
Everything else will be forgettable

The bridegroom will ride on a chariot light
Around eleven-twelve tonight

The moon will swing in with his moonlight
The stars will twinkle on their own shining bright

Indra will bring along the rains
Varun will hold the clouds in rein

The sun will be present as a single ray
The trio will create a rainbow array

Draupadi will come with five pandav
Shiv will swirl to his Dance Tandav

Agni himself will do the Havan
Gentle breeze will be supplied by Pavan

The bangles will be made from leaves green
The color of the earth will be vermilon red

The sky will be decked in black and blue
When Krishna will dance with Radha his beloved true

There will be celebrations lavish
Mortals will be left in disbelief

The food will indeed be delectable
Each dish will be a creative spectacle!

Creation will be at her very best
When the earth and sky
will be in their union blessed.
Awesome Annie Jul 2014
I don't know why you're so painful to me.
Breaking me down,
every time you come and go.
I'm regret to you,
a sore spot on your heart.
You only see your past when you look at me,
A reflection of the destruction your leaving caused.
Ultimate ruin in your wake.
I can never shake these shoes,
Worn Maryjanes of a girl who doesn't know how to stop loving you.
I reach for you and you pull away,
So I stopped wishing,
Learning that it never has been about me.
You called today,
6 years of absence leaving me hollow.
I don't want it,
This time I just can't.
I don't know why you're always so painful to me,
Or how I can be so forgettable.
prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.

soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart

chills.

his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.

moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.
sorry michael.
Arlene Bozich Jul 2012
There are secrets I tell to the demons in my heart
Secrets that had torn me of peace long before they contaminated the air.
My mind screams to shed these weights, the crown of thorns sitting on my brain.
But my lying tongue holds these flames for beings who care not for fire.
Every whisper in the dark echoes these trifles
Every breath exhaled sings of my malice
To my hate, I beg it to leave. Attract other things to replace it.
But my limits are human. Though I strive for wings, only arms remain.
Bare backed and lashed with my own whips.
So I’ll spit on the ground; masochistic to the core.
Dear demons, do not betray my goodness to these angels.
Let them think me, as you, demonic. And therefore, forgettable.
Gods, let me write a forgettable poem
Let it be sweet and wonderful
Lightly stroking the hearts of all who read
Let them forget my name and all the words
It will be sweet and wonderful
It will change something in the world
Subtle little shift toward paradise
Forgotten and saved
And let the poem bubble up everywhere
Whenever it is needed
Able to uplift and heal souls
And then the reader will remember
When she read it last
What she was like back then
And be confronted with how she’s grown
Let it be read and forgotten
Let it be read and its writer forgotten
Maybe it will be one of my last
Or one of my best
~~~~~
Like a flowering tree
Life has its many seasons
We have been told this many times
The best things in life are free
You don’t need reasons
To feel a certain way sometimes
How hot things get, they cool off
How cold winter is, how much life spring brings
You’ll be okay because you don’t have a choice
Excuse me as I cough
I think it helps me when I sing
But no one likes this poet’s singing voice
Forgettable Prayer by Jonathan Barry Sullivan is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.facebook.com/ClayFox.
Anon C Dec 2012
A world so vast, so many just like me
Same brown eyes in an eternal sea
Similar story so many have danced
My memory forgotten with a glance

Not so special, easily replaced
A soul marked as such, utterly defaced
I find me so unremarkable, so dull
So much so that I am utterly forgettable
pixels Nov 2015
I've been a million things in my life,
And worn a million faces like masks in an eighteenth century opera house where they tell you to scream like you mean it and whispers are never heard because the crowd is already on their feet and the roses smell too sweet.

But today I wear nothing but my ego,
My ego,
So Jungian, Freudian, the sought-after prize of a million men who won't ever compete with my constellation scars or the sharp sound of my teeth clicking together in a cruel grin.

You hate girls that strut like they're concrete because you broke them all before,
Because they're lies and false gods and you swear that youth today are all spat words and flying ***** not given.

I'm not youth today,
I'm an age-old god of war and pride and I'll cut you down like a whisper in the wind if you try my patience...

Because what is death if not being forgotten?
I'll forget you, if you try my patience.
I've forgotten a million fragile egos and I'll crumble your concrete into pixelated dust like a million tiny claps in an eighteenth century opera house that can't tell if the blood on my hands is real.

I've been a million things in my life,
But I'm finally the one that matters: unforgettable.
The sky twirling at bay,
Melodies of summer in May,
Heat stroking farther, forever
In this oblivious weather,
The wind flies high,
Darkness regretted, Light calls,
To enervate the recreated world,
The maze of life,
Is regrettable,
Unforgettable.
But as summer calls,
So do the loving and dead,
And, thus,
The unforgettable becomes forgettable.
Ben Skross Apr 2014
you said your most defining term is forgettable
thats not true
becuase i just cant seem to get you
out
of
my
mind
i Mar 2014
at age five,
her bath is full of bubbles
and happiness.
yellow ducks floating
on the surface,
make her young soul
happy.

at age ten,
her bath is not
full of bubbles.
she does not take baths
anymore.
she showers now,
because it's faster,
and forgettable,
just like life should be.

at age fifteen,
her bath is not full of bubbles,
again.
but now, she sits in the tub,
only dull water surrounding
her body.
on the surface there
are no more yellow ducks,
they are now replaced by flowers,
which are ripped out from the hard ground along with the root,
*just like she was ripped
out from her silly dream,
along with her insane mind.
and she lived her miserable life,
just like this,
just how she did now.
Kaitlyn McEowen May 2013
And it hurts, feeling like your forgettable.
Feeling like if you leave the room, coming back doesn’t matter.
I have to throw my hands in your face for you to remember me.  
You said I was funny, you said you were thinking of me until the new toy was in stock.
She’s bigger, she’s better, she’s shiny and new, you know I’d probably choose that too.
But when she smiles, all you see are the gears, working to keep her head intact, the heart is a ***** secured with glue and plastic.
And when she laughs at your jokes yeah she still looks pretty but doesn’t know what you said and then sits quietly.
Just so politely and shiny and new.
A lion is awake,
scanning two pillars
which surround
the black rock
and the wooden talisman,
safely,
in the middle.

Dream-like,
the thumping music
from a far-away room
(seen as invisible)
causes the cat
to ponder
the words

that should be forgotten.
Language disturbs the peace.
Free poem by Kongsaeng Chris Everson - 2010
raw with love Nov 2015
(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.
Is it desperation
Is it realization
Is it weakness
That brings me here
Can it be my initials
To settle in the concrete
Can I get away
Before it cements

-JCM-
Ralph Albors Sep 2015
You with the draw-well eyes,
and gold ingots for hair,
with Silence as your name,
and catapults for legs;
I shall learn your name today,
I shall forget your face today.

Your draw-wells' potable water
will flow down your cheeks,
and your hair's gold will devalue,
and your mouth's silence will speak,
and your legs' wood will break;
nothing but your name shall remain.
You whose beauty shall fade.
    June 30th
aviisevil Mar 2018
my breath is blue
cold and forgettable
in this dark room
and with my eyes closed
composed of a mind
and all its follies,
that I cannot switch off;

i am lost, yes,
bless'd with a life
i never would have
known otherwise,

of minutes, mountains and
stones, wise men; a home
and sun rise,

here on this rock
me and so many like me
will die, pretending we
never would,

consuming blood and wood
even burning the forest down
'tis his kingdom, filled with
people bad and good,

some mad and filled with
scars and broken days
then there's that who
has no need for a place,
some wear stars and some
wear no face, some are meant
to die, some meant to stay

some go away never to
come back, some find
grey days soothing as they
pass by, some live
in good-byes, and some dye
themselves, some don't cry,

some won't die, and we'd
watch them live forever,
whilst we break our lies,

i live the lies too, yes,
but that's more bless'd, in
this storm of illusion,
outside this dark room
where i bleed away bits of
me, everytime i step out,

loud noises and the clock,
to break me down,

silence louder than words,
empty air for me to drown
trapped in a circle 'round
my neck,

eyes to dream me a crown,
and a mind for the countless
worthless things i've found
gagged and bound,
in the deepest layers
miles deeper than my skin
sinking, and inking my
breath blue.
A Mareship Oct 2013
Dinner table,
Bowls of light,
Stage fright, lilies,
No appetite,
Dark absences nibbling
Right through my eyes
Like black rabbits pulled
Out of Truman Show skies,
Provoking the question
From those sat up front –
Is this a trick you’re pulling -
Is this one of your stunts?
But no amount of smiling
Will do –
Nod all you like.
They’re onto you.

Christmas Eve,
Sister’s house,
Black eye,
Ulcerated mouth.
Divinely tickled-
By Miss World!
A pinecone and mistletoe
Christmas hurled
Down en suite toilets
Porcelain pink,
My face makes love
To the bathroom sink.

The most squalid Little Lord
In the county, me,
Summer blooms hold
No charms for me,
So I try to apply my
Favourite smile
And travel a few more
Country miles
To a chemist that doesn’t
Know my face.
I browse a bit
(Condoms, spectacles case)
Then I try to
Convince the pharmacist
That I need two
Bottles of
Gee’s Linctus.

The cruelest boyfriend
I ever had
Gives head to a toilet roll
And his fingerpads
Are bordello yellow
From greased nicotine,
This ******* in Primrose
Exhales smoke in a stream,
And I try to remember what
Buttercup said,
His baby’s breath whispers
Wilt in my head,
Something about purity
Something about loss
Something about cleanliness
Something about God
Something about something
That I should tick off as regrettable,
But one flower can make everything
So *******
Forgettable.
( drugs are bad etc, ***** based ones in particular. Alcohol is also bad, and cigarettes, and bacon, and chocolate truffles if you eat a lot of them.
No, seriously, try not to do drugs)
Grace Jun 2018
I cant tell you how much the hush hush hurts,

the gaps,

[the deliberately left blanks]

the silences that make me scared of saying words out loud.


It's the switching of meanings that does it,

all the tip toe awkwardness

the swift, unconscious side steps.


It's the whole long stretch of silence,

the whole deliberate

accidental

hush hush of something I never even knew the name of.  


It's the casual,

forgettable

drops of slights

that I'm still turning

over and over.


It's a hush hush never intended to be malicious but

the quiet twists and tears

and so I can never tell you how much the hush hush hurts

because the silence keeps me hush hushed too.
Working through some things I guess. It's hard to address the hush hush when you know it wasn't malicious, just accidental or a result of a different time. I wonder if they even know about the hush hush? I wonder if they know they kept it? Anyway it's something I need to work through and poetry helps or something

Note: So we talked about the hush hush without words but it's okay, maybe it's how we do things best. And the hush hushed becomes a thing of vibrant, rainbow colours and it's lifting off my shoulders and I think in a glowing kind of way that maybe there's something in this that will be okay. And I wonder how you knew but for now it remains hush hushed because I can’t quite talk about it yet. I wear it instead, I wear my colours instead and maybe that speaks enough for the moment. (Fourteenth of September Two Thousand and Eighteen)
Cora Lee Jan 2013
Woke up this morning,
Blankets thrown off the bed.
I can only imagine
What had gone on in my head.
This one's a little different for me... let me know what you think, criticism welcome.
Carmen Apr 2014
Perhaps we were both waiting
for words to come from the speechless;
with our hands outstretched, feeling
for some infinite nebula we called love.

I liked the way you saw form in the formless,
a dreamer from the sleeping,
and the ghost from the living

(But the real ghosts and dreamers were us)

Sea-sorrow would sink our ships of wander-lust
And we'd rebuild with planks of heartache;
new sails of empathy and a hull big enough
for everything else in between

Some moments were better than others,
Some forgettable, others memorable
your lips, my eyes, your skin, my skies;
the cavities of silence in our conversations.
I remember, when you tried to blink away the sea-change
Rubbing waves of apathy, so endless
and unrelenting, from your face
Watching you fight the tempest moved me
and my lungs took in so much sin
It made my bones ache with guilt;
the fire of my desires, the prison of my soul.

Perhaps we were both waiting
for the proverbial hand, that infinite warmth,
to reach down from the heavens.
The hand that moulded us;
the hand we slighted for love.
#b
Tyler Cobain Oct 2014
I'm not racing anymore I am slowing down
I fear I'm out of my depth and I'm gonna drown
Your perfect smile was making me insane
But I will never forget the searing pain

It's not coming from my mouth it's coming from my soul
I thought our love would get the chance to grow old
Through the smoke I see the definite end
It brings a tear to my eye and I begin to choke

The blood in my veins tries hard to break through the skin
You had my heart on the wall held up with a pin
You say you loved me once and that is no lie
I'll just walk on, stay strong and one day fly
Away from you
#love   #life   #sad   #pain   #death   #depression   #sadness   #thoughts   #you   #heartbreak
polyratic May 2018
I have a few,
like burning a good future.
Losing love
loving lots
spiraling in confusion.

Blinding rage,
petty sayings
a quiet vocal range.

Lackadaisical,
completely forgettable,
earn below the average joe.

I write,
I draw,
both subpar
I can't drive a car.

I can hide in a smile
lie with my eyes
and never really cry.

Overweight,
out of shape,
hoodie shaped,
never took a family break.

Mnm wants me to,
but never said I'd go far.
Won't ever date.
Usually believes in fate,
not holy gates.

my skillset so far.
I've always had skills.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
The Real Poets Here

are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find

their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port

they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary  Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West

opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages

when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided

fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass

of them
I*
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me

Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly

dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...

all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,

wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or  urgently comfort us when none else can,

these are my friends,
the real poets here*

god keep you well

my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
"Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
      We will grieve not, rather find
      Strength in what remains behind;
      In the primal sympathy
      Which having been must ever be;
      In the soothing thoughts that spring
      Out of human suffering;
      In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind."

William Wordsworth. 1770–1850

Compose and Posted 3:30am June 12, 2014
Lucy Tonic Nov 2012
Infancy, not remembered
Newborns with original sin
Mother is a vessel
Baptism should come later in
Life
Waves of temptation
Bring the proud to decay
The divine is given to evil men
Who value Greek gods and prey
Upon life
Racing against the depths
Of unforgivable time
We push death out
Of our minds
With true love

The stormy ******* of human life-
Wonderful and forgettable
Anora Emporium Jul 2019
One day I'll write all of these poems into little books
Hide all these places in little nooks
And these faces into looks
That I can no longer show
Cause I took too much
And left little to sow
My earth is bare
Cause no flowers grow
But I shaved it
Enslaved
over
it
Should
have
tendered
it
a moment more
Then maybe I would have seen
What could have been green without envy and greed
Just a seed that grew from a lack of seed
I can plead with myself but my ears are deaf to empty threats
Empty regrets
Resetting in my head like a record on replay
The slight delay drives me crazy.

I used to read my poems out loud
But now the rhythm is gone
It's on repeat
Repeat
We reap what we sow
And I sewed salt into my wounds.
Phoenix Jan 2018
I wave but you can’t see me
I speak but you can’t hear me
We touch but you can’t feel me
I’m getting panicked now
Why can’t anyone recognize me?
I scream but you won’t turn to me
You search your memory
for any remnant of our history
but you seem to come up…  empty

I finally realize
I’m missing from your memories
You don’t remember
all the times I’ve wiped your tears
You don’t remember
all the times we’ve laughed together
You don’t remember
all our peaceful years

I know this is just a waste of time
but it’s hard to watch
your future sprinting past our crime
We were always easily divisible
but I didn’t realize
I was so invisible
This is supposed to be a spoken word poem.
Gemma Sep 2010
I want to write a bad poem
A cringe worthy, generic, forgettable poem
Maybe something along the lines of...
                       ...your bruised arms around me
                                   left a hole where my heart should have been....
That was a good first attempt at bad, I reckon.

I shall litter said poem with words I found in a thesaurus,
(iridescent, luminous, diabolical, sacrilegious, egregious etc.)
and elements of nature,
(infinite blue skies, bubbling starfish pond, burnt autumn leaves)
and vague ****** references,
(satin bedsheets, steamy phone booths, glistening skin)
and unremarkable idiosyncrasies of past lovers
(you always filled your pockets with loose change;
you always peeled the apple bottom-up;
you always blahd the blooh blah with your blah-like personality)
and lastly,
but most importantly,  
the stray allusions to a life of tortuous heartache and unfulfilled dreams.


Zzzzzzzzzzz
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
the greater technique in writing poetry,
is not really associated with the
scholastic, well at least not with poets-in-residence
at university institution, esp. with the current
curb on free experience of expression
having to walk a ballerina sort of walk on
tip toe, even though a ballerina walk on
hard surfaces is an elephants stomp (swan lake?
the drumming of the ballerinas deafens the
music, what a crude sadistic art-form),
and should ballerinas practice the art-form on
cushions they couldn't do their tip-toe...
a ballerina sort of walk to not cause usurping
apathy by the bullish heart is a paradox...
because hard topics with a ballerina tread will
still become a piano hitting the ground...
and soft topics with a ballerina tread will
only become the agonising loss of firm footing,
and a torture of the trivial having to be danced
upon with such seriousness as the samba would
otherwise allow... the tip-toe having not firm
rooting... if that makes a sensual impression on you,
so be it, it's hardly senseless to write such words,
since you see the symbolic encoding with you words,
so unless these arrangements don't make you blind,
i'm assuming you will not allow anti-geometrics of
certain painters... and instead you're embracing
satisfaction with squares and triangles...
a rigid narrative of pre-planning an expedition to
Antarctica asking for the right provisions of fur,
tents and water and food... it's not up to me to play with
these words for interpretation, i've made the interpretation
a freedom only you can behold, i can't always be found
willing to interpret the arrangement for you,
i'm not into thought ******* and shackling,
and if you're into that... then you're just plain ******* lazy;
i mean, if i was a poet-in-residence at a university
and told to mind recognisable poetic technique
in the range of onomatopoeia and metaphor
and not accept a higher technique, the digression
via the kaleidoscope, the many diversion,
changed subject matters... i'd bore myself to death...
of course there's the rambling technique of
a poetic narrative, a sudden caffeine injection of
the elevated moment, but that technique calls for
a single subject matter - i'm talking explosions...
a return to ballerinas, if poets mind hard subjects,
heavy subjects, and they want to treat on them
gracefully like ballerinas in agony
they will have to embrace the fact that such
"grace" is actually an elephants stomp...
it's no good asking ballerinas to practice their
art by dancing on cushions... the two graces -
one of dance and the other of grace will never allow
you to walk around on tip-tope...
oh come on, interpret it with images of some sort
of comparison, like a ballerina on a tightrope...
i'm not going to be spoon-feeding you
anywhere from the page.

spring clean, the boiler-man came for an annual
check-up, i was working and kept my room
a bit un-kept...
cleaned the windows, hoovered the floor,
steamed it, cleaned the bookshelves from dust,
it smelt like a mint-conditioning comic after,
changed the bedsheets,
took all the empty cups from the shelves,
spotless clean...
but i'm telling you, if i get to see 2015's
best film *inside out
by pixar i'd give you
a clear analysis on the specific points,
at the moment i have this **** of thinking
about how the optics of man
only start engaging in memory after 4 years
upon birth...
spending nine months in the waters of the womb
(imagine coal miners trapped in
perpetual coal-mine for nine months,
they'd re-enter the light of day like moles,
having to wear sunglasses for the same number
of months before the eyes adjusted) -
it's no wonder that the parts of the body
passing fluids (well, **** in the form of
diarrhoea is pigeon ****) are weak...
why the ***** i'm saying...
why the mushy pulp of the apple purée
because the oesophagus is weak too and needs
to develop like bones, become hardened,
indeed these soft tissues need to become firm
paralleled with bones, baby bones are undeveloped
in terms of how we can't walk at the beginning
but crawl... forget the drawings of darwinism
of shortened historical explanation...
our's isn't with tail and hunched spine...
we're crawling...
but the pixar film inside out i will write a detailed
analysis when i see it again...
at first i can only relate one fascination...
the way we only become to actually consciously
see aged ~4... prior to that we have no
optical impression of the world with memory...
memory and seeing only enjoin
aged ~4... prior to that all the senses are based
in the unconscious, once the senses emerge from
the unconscious, actual faculties develop,
sight develops with memory...
i could say that speech develops with sounds...
but ba ba goo goo ma ma da da is actual
gibberish to consider since we become so eloquent
after, aided by the fact that we capture sounds
with phonetic optics of letters...
i'll stick my ground,
the first symbiosis is that of sight and memory,
which also becomes a symbiosis of
sight and memorising-imagination, or memory-in-itself...
and the clash of these two symbioses
creates a paradox of what actually happened
and what happened upon re-imagining...
like i said, i could expand on the theories within
inside out, with my re-evaluation as alt. outside in,
and i can say about a 1000 child psychologists could
be spawned from this single film...
but you never know, i might even theorise further
tonight once i drink enough and get a toilet break;
and bear in mind i'm about to cross the threshold
of being awake for 24 hours, after i miscalculated
my doctor's appointment for an amitriptyline (25mg)
prescription; the depth of the film is immense,
but i think it's harsh for so many psychological
undertones to be shown t children,
i think that it's a film for adults, even though
it's rated U... and indeed, more like a U-turn in
terms of thinking about life than suitable for
the under-aged
,
at first you get the early stages of child development,
by the end of the film of hopefully seeing adolescent
development, but that's cut short when
puberty obstructs sensitive sensible matters that
lead into sadomasochism in certain cases,
and in others into ****** carelessness as documented
by grooming examples in societies, like the ones
in england... or two girls today in mini-skirts with
the still cold spring nights, one ******* crouched
in an alley, the other trying to ease her on
while i walk past to finish it quickly...
i could, really could bombast you with my little
theory tool-kit... when joy becomes jealous of
sadness and wants to rob sadness of a prime memory...
the simple cutting of the umbilical chord of
being born in one place, but moving to another...
the sheer thoughtless release of tears in a classroom...
then the imaginary friend encounter...
never take short-cuts with that third cat,
third elephant, third dolphin character leading
you into the world of imagination,
the imaginary friend is actually a placebo figure in
this realm, he can't have imagined it all,
we couldn't have been the first prize pundit in it all...
he's the thief of ownership...
and then dragged into the cyst pit of those
characters real in life, celebrating your third birthday,
still blind to the world... the rainbows of life
and the darkness of the foetal mine...
the clown who's less horror but more a 5 year
student of acting reduced to cheap party tricks...
distorted not in life, but in your dreams,
as proof that you really didn't see the world
so early... you couldn't have, because if you had,
the dream world would not distort so profoundly...
and upon re-entry into the foetal position of sleep
your first 3 years are reflected in sleep...
such that when joy and sadness walked into
the realm of the imagination i thought they'd wake
the girl up by going to the cinema to watch a horror movie
like the one joy tried to block when the family
first moved to san francisco...
oh indeed the over-layering of the five crude expressions
of thought, memory and imagination...
i wonder why these chose those five...
and there was no hope among them - and hope's
triplet shapes of hope itself, love, and fear...
and when suddenly the imaginary friend dragged
the poor girl into the abyss of forgettable memories,
it dawned on me how the girl sat there holding
memories she wished to remember, a motherly
narcissism as to say: my own child...
but it felt so strange to imagine this child
holding onto memories like that, when in reality
without the five crude impressions of feelings
she would be unable to do so... this melancholic
reflection of joy suddenly dawned upon her
that the real sadness was the it too was sadness,
for if natural selection exists... so too much
cognitive selection, however dear some things are
to us... some of us have to remember
being able to give surgery, learn to drive buses,
teach mathematics... to be truly enjoined with humanity,
and not simple childish solipsists;
even as such... write poetry and weep.
Soft, easy to walk on
Pleasant, comfortable
Familial, forgettable
That's carpet.

Hateful, vengeful
Frustrated, ill-intentioned
Always mentioned, enfuriating
That's toxic.

Please love me.
Will you listen to me?
How are you doing?
That's carpet.

Please love me.
I'm empty.
I need you.
That's toxic.

I love you,
I'll do anything for you!
Please command me.
That's carpet.

I deal with your idiocies
I deal with your standards
I conform to fit inside your image.
That's toxic.

Can you hug me in front of
All of these people?
So that they know I'm worth something?
That's carpet.

After you listen to me,
I'll say I'm useless.
I'll say it's not your fault.
That's toxic.

I don't want to ***,
I don't want to talk,
I want you to trust me and tell me everything.
That's carpet.

All I want is ***,
All I need is some warm body.
Give me the fuel I've run out of.
That's toxic.

I'll give you everything
And do whatever you want
For whatever feigned love you can muster.
That's carpet.

I'm ready to conform.
Give me drugs and let me tighten up
While you let loose and accidentally love me.
That's toxic.

I'll text you back immediately.
And patiently await your response.
Rejoice in this moment you did for me.
That's carpet.

Give me advice.
So I can shoot you down.
So I can let you down.
So I can let you drown.
In my toxic civil war
Where I knew no solution would come
From my internal struggle.
But you took a side
And felt the wrath of one of my forces.
I can't help you.
Leave me alone.
That's toxic.

I walk around
By myself late at night.
I text you and say I need you.
Don't worry about where I am.
I needed to be alone,
But now I don't.
I just escaped misery and wanted to
Find you.
Find me,
Or I'll run away.
Block me,
So I can fester.
That's carpet.

Let me give you a million compliments.
Easily.
While you find one for me
And slip a shark a steak
Even though he'll always be hungry.
Sharks barely ever **** humans,
But they're so scary.
It's the hunger, it's the image.
It's not the behavior.
It's not.
The image is hunger.
Always give me more.
That's toxic.

I serve.
I help.
I pleasure, assist, provide
I care, then I care more.
Then I go home and rub off
The disappointment and fear of alone.
Then I care more.
And I wait for the love I give
To come to me.
And I think it will.
That's carpet.

Leave me alone.
Be honest.
That's what I need.
Let your honesty drown you
Because I'm honest too.
And I'll open up the floodgates,
Without remorse.
Sorry if you drown.
I overthink, bottle up, and overshare.
That's toxic.

Please love me.
Please act with me,
Act out the fantasies I have planned.
And re-enact the ones I did.
I'm toxic.
I'm carpet.
That's me.
A poem idea I had, here it is
Samantha Jan 2014
They say I’m darkness
Scowl carved into marble face
Blue veins twisting in wrists
Rainy day eyes
And fingers made for pianos and cigarettes

They say I’m misery
Black clothing on pale skin
Nails filed into knives
Lip caught between teeth
Family vacations in cemeteries

He said I’m not the type of girl people look twice at
Forgettable like a forest fire
Beautiful like a dead baby bird
He was trying to be romantic

They say I’m lonely
Poor girl
Always alone
Smile and join us
We need a charity project

They say I’m pity
Brows perpetually furrowed
Lungs perpetually constricting
Sweaty palms glued to walls
They have the nerve to fee sorry for me

Someone once told me
I looked like a tornado
Ripping through the hallways at school
A natural disaster
Racking up a body count
I wonder how many people I’ve made cry

They say I’m intimidation
This noose around my neck scares them
A fashion statement
With my fangs bared and a stare that can ****
I walk

They say I’m music
The sound of high heels on pavement
A broken string on a violin
An angel that was never taught
How to play the harp
Shattered halo at its feet

They say I’m pain
Menstrual cramps squeezing the life out
Of a thirteen year old girl
Blood on underwear
Blood under fingernails
Blood running down thighs

They say I am blood
A gory mess
Scars like tattoos
Scrapped knees like badges

They say I’m darkness
A shadow
Engulfing the world
They need me
To appreciate the light
ellie danes Jul 2018
i’m drowning in new york city.
i want to die, again.
always! why is it like this?
i hate everyone; i want my ****** dramatic burlington life and friends back.
her, him, those two, even them…
i want it back.
i wanna be no one.
i wanna be everyone.
i;m full of emotions that i don’t want because everything is so different except for them.
no matter what i do the doom and gloom is always there.
i wanna change my name
i wanna get a dog—auggie or esme, a red border collie—and flee to the south.
I WANNA DRINK MYSELF TO DEATH.
i see these visions of a stable, happy, healthy version of myself but i also see these visions of me literally not making it past age 21.
i’m eternally stuck on self destructing.
but why?
why!
everything is good but it’s never enough.
i’m never enough, it’s never enough, he’s never enough (whoever he is at any given moment)
sam says he’ll fly me back to santa cruz and my insanity says do it but the small semblance of “morals” i still possess tell me not to…
only because of my parents. because of joe.
i don’t want to hurt them.
i don’t want to hurt anyone. but i’m hurting. always. forever. unless i’m drunk. no, wait…even when i’m drunk. i learned that the hard time this last run.
but life is meaningless (words are meaningless and forgettable) and time is a flat circle
blah blah blah
i’ve been here before
i’ll be here again
everything i do i’ll do over and over til i die.
if i don’t get drunk anytime soon i will eventually.
eternal return; the emo version of destiny.
remember when caroline myss’ book told me my highest potential was “victim”?
i’ll be drowning forever.
i’d rather be drowning in absinthe than drowning in aa meeting coffee.
i ache at the beauty of the world; the beauty which i will never achieve or be a part of.
i cry and i cry and i cry.
i want to be beautiful and pure but it’s all so dark.
all the people i’ve loved and who love me…i weep and i weep and i weep.
i can’t breathe fully; why do i wish i could not breathe at all?
i look back at all my pasts as if they were yesterday, and yet they all feel as if i’d made them up entirely.
disconnected and yet fully involved with each and every era of my evolution…
and yet i swear, i haven’t truly changed a bit.
the details change—the scenery, the faces, the dreams…
but all the emotions…all the thoughts…they stay the same.
“i won’t change, i’ll stay the same—darling, fade away…”
fading & falling & then blooming for a single lovely night
time is a flat circle.
i ache, i weep, i cry.
i naively hold onto the hope that someday…someday i’ll be okay.
please, god.
i have to be okay.
i have to turn off the bon iver.
i’m just trying to breathe.
maybe someday.
i'm not writing poems lately just emo bursts
CM Rice Dec 2013
There is no ****** in relationships these days!
He proclaimed, swinging amble waist in my direction,
Just them public displays of affection Or PDA’s:
To those afflicted with ‘abbreviationithis’ (ABT) for short,
We are in the custody of a soulless generation,
Bathed in apathy, shorthand speaking, glass-tapping,
Pampered glad-hands glad-handing, over-perfumed,
Statements of exaggerations - investigated in toilets,
On lifeless screens, no skill of conversation required.
Larry continued, unabated by the stares an’ giggles.

****** is what counts; it makes up a sizeable portion,
Of love at first sight, not online but in person,
An animal magnetism takes hold an’ before you know..
You’ve ****** yourself and your attraction in the flesh,
The art of being undressed yet still dressed is an art,
Too easy are these poorly constructed witless lines,
Weak almost polite hugs, clearly awkward air-kisses,
Perceived as the innocent dance of modern romance.
How is anyone to know anyone lusts after them?
How is someone to know if not for someone’s ******?

I feared that I had stumbled upon an early night,
I’d been collared by this mongrel of a forgettable time,
His rigorous attention to showing this ******,
Serenading my embarrassment was now a highlight,
His ramblings long ignored, possibly insightful,
Cried out hilariously for proof of his master plan,
So for the devilment – I asked for a demonstration,
To appease my boredom of debating with this fool,
Larry motioned again; his eyes lit as much as his mind,
To a woman stood waiting, her desire for the taking.

I must warn you, ****** is not for the faint-at-heart,
No use shoving hips of wanting into a total stranger,
Catch the eyes first - leave some distance and discretion,
Smile and move silently – prepare to tell a story,
As with any manoeuvre, there must be some grace,
Double-check your manners an’ prepare for a feast,
Straighten your ready stance to deliver the clincher,
Smile again brightly with no hint of danger,  
An’ in a movement pincer-like yet working alone,
On a wing with no prayers – I’ll show you, my friend.

An’ so he did, sweeping toward this unsuspecting patron,
Larry had managed to scare, scatter and surprise,
This woman and many others, the beholder unwelcome,
The moral of this story on hold, he had slipped a hip,
Into her personal space, and nonchalantly she turned away,
He continued with his thrusting, his way of affecting,
The conversation – dead now for shock and unsettling awe,
She had strangled her anger and suspended her belief,
That a man would be so crass as to ****** her in public,
Accosted by her coldness, he returned to proclaim an ending.

I never said that ****** worked on the charmless,
The per-occupied, the rude, the shy or the frail,
I trust my ****** with one hand free for everything,
My other hand grasped on this lover’s Holy Grail.

It does take all walks of life, some stumbling some not,
To lust, to wonder for love, now left forever pursued,
So a question is forever lost – to ****** or not to ******?  
Deluded Larry had diluted - still I’d been left, amused.
…. Few years back, a man known only as ***** Larry, drunk on someone else’s memories, had told me about the ‘good aul days’ and the way of showing a desire to be with someone was to ****** yourself. I had agreed although as he had spoke that night - I had assumed his flagrant misuse of alcohol and his ‘Irosh’ accent had caused him to mispronounce the word trust.  I was proved wrong after a few more light ales, as Larry prepared to ****** his sweaty, unsteady frame into my side. I had been left me in no doubt – he indeed had meant the word ****** and the action of thrusting. He concluded that it was what most relationships lacked these days…
Kurtis Emken Oct 2012
Alright,
I'm standing
in a rain soaked field
looking due North at the
stacked glorious nothing.

And the vapid brands that
stamped and covered these walls
are an echo of their vibrant
former hues.  

The people drive round
and down trying to get
to their brown house maybe.
The parking lots are planar
grey graves, commemorating
the former lives of the

ghosts of shopping malls past
dying ghosts of shopping malls past.

Right on, I'm
walking through the Holocaust
memorial with my coat buttoned
to my throat.  The dying lights of
the Sharper Image really makes
a mockery of what they left.

There is the shell of a Banana Republic.
There's Old Navy, Gamestop, Footlocker
Shoes.  This is the food court where I hit
on that girl who ended up being as
forgettable as a food court meal.

Okay,
now I'm
looking out just one mile south at the
excavators pushing the dirt and the rock
Digging into land bought by the City,
to build up a new store or twenty

This new real estate is assured to
bring "vibrancy" to our local economy.
Those old stores aren't the right location
so let's just leave, they never existed and

a single family of mallards swim is
circles in Yorkshire Lake.  Calmly watching
as the engines get closer, not really expecting
their time is over to bring in the future of

the ghosts of shopping malls past.
Another ghost of shopping malls past.
Laura Gee Apr 2016
The first apartment I ever called my own
Complete with kitchen, bathroom and twin bed
No mom, no dad
But a living room with a rickety couch
And ugly blue carpets, with cigarette burns
Even though smoking wasn't allowed

They bulldozed it to the ground
It's a big parking lot now
Full of those tiny rocks
The annoying ones that get stuck in your shoes
They bulldozed my first apartment
And a few of my other firsts

Like the first time I thought I was in love
And I waited nervously
In front of the heavy, wooden door
And he came in with a mission
Because drinking and ripping bongs
Melted away any nerves he may have had

I wondered if I'd shudder when the moment finally came
If I'd get red in the face - hot from the pressure
Would my arms turn splotchy?
Would my chest turn red?
Turning me into some diseased-looking freak
As opposed to the pretty, young thing
I'd wanted him to make love to
If only I knew,
That he wouldn't notice any of that

He didn't ask me if I was sure
Like guys do in the movies
And he told me what I wanted to hear
And bent me in ways someone with no experience
Should not be bent
And the TV was on in my very first living room
The whole time - the History Channel
I listened to the low hum
You could hear it through the walls
Despite what was supposed to be
A lifelong, loving memory,
I learned about World War II

My twin bed had pink sheets with white stripes
And a pink comforter too
And the next week he forgot my 19th birthday
And I don't know what I expected
But it was OK - I said it was OK
Because I had my own apartment
And my own kitchen
That I can't ever recall cooking in
And I had my pink sheets
That didn't feel so innocent anymore

Table, chairs, fridge and freezer
I had all of that.
Frozen dinners and plastic handles of *****
Not all memories are worth remembering
Sometimes, they just get bulldozed
Kyle Dedalus Feb 2010
“O thou invisible spirit of wine,
if thou hast no name to be known by,
let us call thee devil!”-William Shakespeare*

It's cold outside and colder in here
Under the surprising privacy
of a blaring crowd
I gleefully lose myself

Put on my pseudo-smile
and talk to my pseudo-friends.

Maybe even forget it.
Forget that I feel like a set of floating eyes
Forget that we're all mounds of flesh and hair
Forget
Forget you all

My eyes are brick walls and fence posts
And I am opening the gate to all in sight
I watch my ethos come crashing down
with every increasingly true glance
of yet another Siren.

Only under the blare and blur
of that frozen house
Could I have ever mistaken formality
(or the lack of)
for some sort of kindness or legitimacy.

I've nothing to say to you
but my mouth keeps moving
I've no joy to give to you
but my face keeps smiling

Curse the fate of the hidden one
destined to reveal himself
under most forgettable circumstances

I didn't remember much,
but let us be honest:

when the sun rises
(as it also does)
and your burning eyes long
for lost innocence and vitality

The air will pulse and the room will echo
but I will be gone:
and I'm taking your memory of me
as a parting gift.
Copyrights? Well, do what you will: I'm plenty confident no one would want to reproduce anything I've written.
Chance Sep 2014
Chisel me away
I've given you the hammer and all my weak points
So you start
With little strength starting with all my ligaments and joints
You don't tear them
Very precise and careful like you know exact what you're doing
I should've learned from the past
Even though everyone tells and teaches not to take it with you
How can i forget when its in repetition and tied to the strings on my shoes
I have adapted to the hurt
Or lack there of
The sight of you doesn't make me sick anymore
Just an itch in the back of my throat that i still can't stand
You didn't rip out my heart or make me question who i am
You just simply made me feel like i wasn't worth it
Or anything at all
Dirt beneath your feet
I've dug through every inch of my body and ripped out your disease
Burned the bridge that connected our hearts and minds
I hope you do the same
As methodically and perfect as me
Because when you're digging through old love notes i don't want you to feel a thing when you find
Any residue of my feelings
Because they were a mistake
A mistake not so grave
You weren't the best or the worst
Just somewhere in the middle
Very forgettable
In all you're insecure self loathing beauty
You know my nature and all i stand for
A deliberate betrayel that i seen from a mile away
The itch is gone
And so are you

— The End —