"friendless" poems
My lavender is burnt and loveless;
Painful, devoured and helpless,
Weak by the side of its dying corpse;
Solitary yet at an age so young.
My lavender cries in its daydreams;
Giggles in sorrowful screams,
And faints and dies beneath fun daylight;
As though tortured and wounded by the sun.
My lavender wriggles in isolation;
Like those ragged clothes in damnation
And there's no more death between heaven and hell--
For none is alive, nor breathes to live.
My lavender longs not to drink nor die;
But it sleeps by the hushed setting moon,
Trapped behind the tail of his lethal winds;
Blinded by too many mysteries, unseen.
My lavender peels its own skinny bones;
Its quaint lust cut and fiercely torn,
Teased by the cold trees of summertime;
Faded by the sweet whispers of time.
My lavender eats its own bloodless veins;
And its hateful friendless world,
Having laughed at anonymous walls
Marveled at unspoken poems.
My lavender drinks of its own soul;
And to love now is but to have none,
With her autumn love stolen by fate;
All her gripping sonnets are far too late.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
like a good poet, I whine and whinny:
the muses are unreliable, get too much paid vacation,
unlimited unpaid, and pretend their cells are out of range,
even when they are in bed with you and you’re near desperate
to cop a feel of inspiration
my problem is a variation on the theme. Everyday I jot down
too many possibilities, a handful of words added to the list of
pound bound childless titles, sad faced orphans, dogs and cats,
squeaking “pick me, pick me,”
our reply a casual
“you on the list” rather than admit they are titled, but bodiless
until cupid smashes a cupcake in my face and the bell rings
there they stand - at a friendless crossroads - direction home,
path unknown, awaiting a poet tour guide to complete them
if this sounds a bit like a bad achy breaky country song,
then you and I, on the same side of where I could be headed
cause at the friendless crossroads, always unsure, left foot first? that first line, first step, could be a false messiah,
or a free-at-last, a free-at-last emancipation
but there are no sidelines in a forest there no sidelines in a poet’s mind; there are the minefields of mindfulness that can explore explode and explain why it is tempting to believe that every gifted one deserves a break today
but you cannot be broken or break off from the community
“Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community; and do not trust in yourself until the day of your death. Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place. Do not say something that cannot be understood but will be understood in the end. Say not: When I have time I will study because you may never have the time”
my friend,
substitute writing poetry for study, for study is for us the analysis of everything, that is, everything we say, see and know the need to communicate
so
those who abide in the life of good words will not suffer an abdication (yours)
do not think
there are friendless crossroads,
there are only crossroads that the eye cannot yet see a fellow sojourner coming toward him,
bearing an oversized load of
the inside insight of responsibility
that demands sharing
that is why we call our meetings at
a crossroads,
a cross
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
After the wolves and before the elms
the bardic order ended in Ireland.
Only a few remained to continue
a dead art in a dying land:
This is a man
on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle.
He has no comfort, no food and no future.
He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by.
His riddles and flatteries will have no reward.
His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid.
Reader of poems, lover of poetry—
in case you thought this was a gentle art
follow this man on a moonless night
to the wretched bed he will have to make:
The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree
and burns in the rain. This is its home,
its last frail shelter. All of it—
Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before—
falters into cadence before he sleeps:
He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it.
6k
Rugby town, of landlocked streets,
of wasted field and barefaced retreat;
I miss you now, in absence of a friend,
I miss you now, in the verse that I lend.
Suburb grove, of sleepy mist,
oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst;
you will remain in place forevermore,
and forevermore, you'll become a bore.
Holding cell, of sporting fame,
you stole my dreams but gave me my name;
I think of you: a multi-storey view,
of happy faces, of which there is few.
Still, my town, in debt's nightgown,
the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down;
these streets are poisoned with names of the past,
each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last
Rugby town, of weary folk,
the private school is a private joke;
I miss you now, as I sleep through the day,
I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say.
Old market town, the aftermath,
of British summer, suicide bath;
of open mics and closing the shutters,
of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters.
Hopeless climbs, of dreary times,
of childhood state and nursery rhymes;
each time that I come home, I know you less,
becoming a stranger in my redress.
Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud,
singing for history long and proud;
of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?”
What if I was born to some lover's tiff?
To some large and friendless town,
to some body of land, which I drown;
to some active place of pain unknown,
to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown,
oh Rugby dear, stay with me,
let me live on the periphery;
and although this town seems terribly dull,
it could be worse – I could live in Hull.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o’er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that ’s foe to men,
For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.
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Loneliness!
Loneliness!
Creeps into full room unseen.
The fatherless child of loneliness.
Stood up in solitude.
Unnoticed in noisy melee.
Rips a soul to shreds.
A vicious circle.
A cycle of lies.
This near friendless soul.
A choice ingested.
Used to flying solo.
Habitual situation.
Being Alone.
Loneliness eats.
Delicious at times.
Most of the time.
Writing autobiography.
Just moments on a tapestry.
Love is still.
Still and silent.
Need love.
Just doesn’t fit.
Can’t do it.
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
Opulent at times.
Destitute at others.
Upward moving.
Stranded in whole self.
In a world full of nations.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
by
rgpage
Now slipping from my quiet night
my captive mind in swirling motion.
From my cold and darkened room
with hollow days and lingering hours;
from this life i slip away.
And journey now i cross the seasons
time's own boundaries hold me not.
I course my way from winter's cold
past infant spring and summer's hot.
'Til on the sandy shores of fall
as in the past i gently land.
I cast my gaze out toward the west
across an endless stretch of waves,
and sit upon the sand.
An evening breeze now strokes my face
the autumn sun is on the wane,
and as it goes it takes the tide
as if its journey needs a friend
to stay it from life's friend less pain.
And like a harlot in the night
to keep me from life's friendless pain.
I strive to seek and hold her near ,
her softened shape clutched next to mine
to keep my lonely heart from fear.
Yes to her side i often journey
her calming presence soothes my mind,
her pulse the breakers on the sand;
the sand her softened skin;
the evening breeze, her scented hair;
with her a gentle peace i find...
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
Is a loner who has friends really a loner?
Does a loner mean a friendless man?
Is it the mindset that we have that makes us it?
Or is it the actions we do that evolves us into it?
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
The officer said it was illegal but I've never been punished thusfar.
I knew it was wrong, but desire consumed me.
I grabbed the man and dragged him into my van.
He screamed and I laughed.
Brutal company.
It was going to hurt, of that I was certain.
His lack of consent did not stop me. I was on a mission, and James Bond always thrives.
I got in and drove as fast and as far as I could.
Speed bumps bring my daughter joy.
She giggles, I smile, he writhes in pain. My smile grows.
A pain bubbles in my clavicle but I digress.
But, I don't digress because it HURT.
I locked the angels in my closet for safe keeping. My mother is proud.
Blood is my favorite accessory. Hashtag period.
My friend always said I was cunning but I never believed her father was a good man.
After all, a good man would never commit such acts.
I threw the empty toilet paper roll at his grave then shouted at his wife's cat.
Meow. Meow, meow. Meow.
It sings the song of the hummingbird so I put it in a collar and walk it to the pound.
The pound sings the song of death, my song.
My student tool box is full of unfortunate goodies, and yes, my English teacher approves.
But I would rather she not. This is my journey, not one I shall share.
I aggressively slap the keys of life, hoping yogurt will seep from the cracks of destiny.
It never does, and I starve.
My granola is friendless.
Life is bitter, like the skin of a plum.
Fierce as a seahorse. But again, I digress.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
My sister never had any boyfriends
which was quite surprising really you know
because she had a nice pair of knockers
and a very cute little **** on her
but never once a gentleman caller
came knock knock knock on her friendless portal.
So I asked her what was the ******* score
that no butch lads wanted to part her bush
and whyfore was she not barking for it
in a vague manner of ******* speaking
and she told me to glue my keen peepers
on her keyhole the next night to find out.
Thus I knelt down before her bedroom door
my eye glued to the appropriate hole
with a full view of her "sleepezee" bed
on which she casually lay spread out
legs opened like a major T-junction
and then her friend appeared to my rapt joy.
I gasped in wonder as her lesby love
straddled my **** sis and gave her tongue
a good chance to lick out her womb entrance
causing me to indulge in self-abuse
as their eager mutual ***********
gave way to some red hot ***** action.
(I hope they didn't hear the noisy splats
as I squirted my lovejuice onto the doorpost)
Good taste, eh?
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
Yadda......yadda......yadda
he's dying of loneliness
Go listen to the news
They're Nine million people lonely in the country
You're all known for your coldness
Some don't even know their neighbours
You abandon your parents when they get old
Put them away in Retirement homes
when was the last time you saw your elderly mum
when was the last time you called your sister
Thank God for the GRASS being the scapegoat used by crooks
To illustrate community mobbing let us all gang up together
Now you're hugging the Asians and the blacks are your best friends
yadda......yadda......yadda
come join the club we are all mates now
against that outsider grass we welcome all
the ***** ******* are molesting women oh it's just
to make grass envious cause we've stopped him loving
talk to me I hate you no more because grass is more hated
no more bullying you just join us and help us harass that grass
don't trouble that foreign shopkeeper we now want him to join
welcome Muslim brothers and sisters come join us
we now like you cause we have somebody else to hate
hey Mr ugly come here for a hug just make sure its in front of grass
you my loner friend be lonely no more you are now a club member
you Somalian, you Ethopian, you chinese, you Ugandan no matter
everyone is friends no more hassle just hate the grass as much as us
yadda......yadda......yadda
this is politics we fool and fool you all
when we need you you are our best friends
we show you our commonality and bring you into the fold
just make sure you do as you're told and don't grass like grass
we will give you opportunities to make grass jealous
we will forge a grapevine from here to Kathmandu and beyond
we will teach you hate and poison your stinking minds
we will imprison you and make you our slaves to serve us
just make sure you give that grass a hard time and come for a prize
this is all our secret and your minds belongs to us gangstalking crew
make him lonely make him friendless and show viva democracy
You are all simpletons and that's how you will stay in our pockets
this is a union of morons by morons for morons and the crooks win
yadda......yadda......yadda
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 3:26 AM UTC
I live here, in this land of filth,
Here I sit, prosperity beyond that which I can achieve,
Oh, this land, it keeps me prisoner,
I cannot move on, I cannot leave.
This land needs no fence or guards to imprison me,
For it has already drained the fire inside, the fire of hope,
Oh, this land, it shackles my soul, locks my heart.
The land supplies the darkness through which I *****
Here I wander, friendless and alone, across the land,
I wander through the forest of despair, all is gray,
Oh this land, it cages me in the bars that are my intelligence,
This land controls me, commands my mind, I’m forced to stay.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
you were a better friend to me in a few months
then some have been to me in years
yet now when we see each other in the halls
we act like we're total strangers
the fallout was all my fault
I didn't believe I deserved a friend
"it wasn't fair you got stuck with me"
and so to make it up to you, I left
now I see how mistaken I was
to think such a foolish thing
but I'm the insecure one of us
it's my job to keep my heart in a sling
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 3:33 PM UTC
And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon,
By the lamp’s dismal twilgiht! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.
2.5k
Isolated, but not alone
Seeking revenge
All on his own
But not against someone
But more like
All those
Who've directly
Or indirectly
Made him feel
This feeling
Of isolation
Isolation here
Doesn't mean lonely
Or friendless
It's more like
A complete lack of understanding
By the society
Towards you
And
Towards us all
'Us' being
The younger generation
;
Not everyone from this
Younger generation
Generally stand up
Or fight
Maybe because
We're all isolated
Together
Similar minds
But unable to read
For we've never learnt
How to
But maybe he
Like a few others
Has the courage
And motivation
To fight through
The invisible barriers
Of this isolation
On his own, though
Because that's what we've learnt
Or been told
To live for yourself
But at the same time
For the future
Of the unborn
;
So he's going to pump up his kicks
And use this shield of isolation
To his strength
Creating an outer wall
As sturdy as bricks
And fight through the barriers
That society has created
This isn't a huge war
That everyone will soon
Know about
Nor will he be called or titled
Some hero
And I'm glad he isn't
Because fame infects
Even the most ambitious
So watch him silently
But powerfully
Slice the walls
Created by us
In his own way
It won't be easy
But at least
He,
Unlike many others,
Will know at the end
That his life
And his actions
Did have
Meaning
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Where almost nothing ever happens and the universe sits mostly still, where indie music is life and where photography is heaven. Where silence is golden and life is absolute. Where we all wish to be, and where only a select few of us can go and handle it.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Where we lie in limbo, waiting for the sun to come up, the moon to go down, the median between life and whats left of the dark decay of lifelessness. Where Your eyes open wide, where your thoughts wander into the void of the infinite. Where we wait to see the beginning, the middle, and the end.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Welcome to the dead, the living, the mourning, the crying, the sad, the happy, the over energetic, the under enthusiastic, the over enthusiastic, the insomniac, the insane, the beautiful, the quiet, the peaceful, the thoughtless and thoughtful, the kind, the caring, the listeners, the wonderful and magnificent, the open minded and wide eyed sleepless.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Where we wander, searching for answers in our sleep. Where we wait for contact and a view into what we think is the future, and where here, we wait for the future. Where we sleep only to be dreaming of our answers we are searching for and never getting the full answer to questions like-
"Who am I?"
"What am I?"
"Who do I love?"
"Who loves me?"
"Why am I here?"
"What awaits me today?"
"Who thinks of me?"
"Who are my friends?"
"Who are my foes?"
"Who are the friendless?"
"Who am I to judge someone?"
"Who are they to judge me?"
"What is left for there to question if I already know the answers to my questions?"
This is what we ask, and wait for...
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Where our mindless infinite, grows! To be ever infinite into the oblivion of exaggerated proportions and ridiculous time! Where everything meets the beginning, the middle and the end. Where life dies, starts, and lives once more for us as humanity to enjoy through one more day, for us to catch our breath, and to breathe the dead and living. For our eyes to capture the very beauty of life through blinking as if our eyes where the lens to a camera and our brains the film to feed it.
All in one quiet, peaceful, beautiful, and insane, hour. Everything lives, dies, and starts over again.
Welcome to the beginning, the middle, and the end.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Welcome to life.
Good morning.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
God of my life, to Thee I call,
Afflicted at Thy feet I fall;
When the great water-floods prevail,
Leave not my trembling heart to fail!
Friend of the friendless and the faint,
Where should I lodge my deep complaint,
Where but with Thee, whose open door
Invites the helpless and the poor!
Did ever mourner plead with Thee,
And Thou refuse the mourner's plea?
Does not the word still fix'd remain,
That none shall seek Thy face in vain?
That were a grief I could not bear,
Didst Thou not hear and answer prayer:
But a prayer-hearing, answering God
Supports me under every load.
Fair is the lot that's cast for me;
I have an Advocate with Thee;
They whom the world caresses most
Have no such privilege to boast.
Poor though I am, despised, forgot,
Yet God, my God, forgets me not:
And he is safe, and must succeed,
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.
2.3k
With no true friend around I talk to myself.
Or maybe I'll head outside and tune in to the clouds
I've never been intentionally hurt by a flower.
And the grass breathes life into my restless soul.
The breeze carries me away from this plastic world.
I don't belong here amongst the dour faces and slippery minds
Why was I forced to leave the light and inhabit this body?
Some say choice, others say fate. Above me the cosmos twirl indifferently.
A lone tear slowly weaves its way down my creased cheek.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
We are the generation
Of a million friends,
At the click of a
Button,
Accept,
Like,
We have so many friends
But no one to talk,
To our face,
What happened to contact,
Is the world too
Hostile,
Scary,
Darkened,
That people fear to go out,
Explore there
Village,
Town,
City,
Where did you meet?
"On-line"
Where did you date
We dated on
Facebook,
Twitter,
Swapped pictures,
This is the first time
We meet
You look shorter?
You have diffrent eyes?
"What you have Five kids"
"From six dads"
"What you were in prison"
"On bail"
You still live with your
Mum & Dad,
But thats what happens,
When you only have friends
Within a screen, not real life,
Go out
Mingle,
Talk,
Friendships,
Are born with the connection
Of real life, not behind a
HD screen,
We are becoming
Generation Friendless,
Lets change that,
Turn off your
Computer,
Phone
Tablet
"Go on you can do it"
Go out in the real word
Make real friends
Not the two hundred behind a screen.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
... a lamentable natural disaster ―
no one really ever understood
the uncomfortable loneliness they read,
left unsaid, in the silence between the lines
Gathered words often revealed
an awkward vulnerability
a life tethering by a frayed thread
unable to shed the skin that enfolds
the dauntingly misunderstood laments
Suspended at friendless crossroads
melancholy days of malignant indifference
stifle the whispered thoughts,
"accepting an unfinished life"
evanescent as the faltering light,
musing many a sleepless night
It’s as if there was always some wordless reason
to never feel "good enough" to just be,
unworthy to discover elusive love,
cleave a labyrinth out of the darkness,
okay to just let go
It’s not a weakness to be human
"Tears are the heart’s traces" … he once wrote
"only eyes cleansed by teardrops see clearly"
heaven's rain unconditionally enlightened
by love and light.
Someone said a poet died
trying to make sense
out of all he thought he'd given
a word at a time was left behind
only abandoned words remain
orphaned in the drowning silence
harlon rivers ©
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
We have walls that you can’t see and we bleed to keep them up
Some of these walls hold our pain back while others hold it in
My wall is a wall that you don’t even think about, obviously
I’ve been told too many times how I’m awesome and funny
Well where are you guys when I need a laugh and a friend
Where are these people that are my “friends”
I guess I have a wall that puts you all away
That makes me standalone even though I give you my soul
I tell you all what’s on the inside, but I still do not see what makes you
I do what I can, I’m involved in many things, but am left in darkness
A personality one of it’s own, one of strength, power,
Will, tranquility, but is left alone to Wallow
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 2:45 AM UTC
There are people everywhere
Surrounding me all over
So they claim to be my friends
But really are they?
Do they really know me?
Do they know my favorite song
Or what I love most?
Do even know this poem is about them?
So they claim to be my friends.
But do they even care?
If I was gone
Would these so called friends
Even realize I had left
Or would they go on about their days
Like I was never there
So these friends of mine
Aren't really my friends
Because the movements there bodies
And the laughter of their voices
Don't include me
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Here’s is an example from
A butterfly;
That on a rough, hard rock
Happy can lie,
Friendless and all alone
On this unsweetened stone.
Now let my bed be hard,
No care take I;
I will make my joy
Like this
Small butterfly,
Whose happy heart has power
To make a stone a flower.
ምሳሌ
አነሆ ምሳሌ ለኛ
ከቢራቢሮ
አልቦ ጓደኛ
ሆና ብቸኛ
የድንጋይ አልጋው
ባይሆንም ደንበኛ
ሻካራ ደረቅ አለት ላይ
ረክታ የምትተኛ፣
እኔም አልጋዬ ቢሆን ደረቅ
ከቶ አልሰቀቅ
ግድ የለም አልቸገር
አሁን ደስታዬን ከዚች
ቢራቢሮ ልበደር፣
ልቧ ጉልበት ያለው
አለቱን ወደአበባ ለመቀየር!
(በዊሊያም ሔነሪ ዳቪስ) //
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
Hey, elegant cat,
you think you can
rest there sitting so prim and well-brought up
and think I’ll bring you some sparrows I catch
on from the tree-top?
You got to move your **** brother;
Sparrows don’t fall off trees like ripe fruit
for you to pick from the ground, you know.
Or maybe you don’t know.
And I’m not going to be doing the work
for you, wild cat and friendless as I am.
I live on my own, catch my own sparrows
and eat my own dinner
and lick my lips and I sleep under the shade of the tree
when my tummy’s full
and sure, that’s all I care about
getting my daily meals.
And not even in your wildest dreams, hey well-washed cat,
not even in your wildest dreams
do I have desire to share bird meat and bones with anyone
and especially not with an elegant rich-home cat like you…
Well, you can have the feathers, if you like.
Now really, how did a nice cat like you get lost?
Is this your day out or what?
Some kind of an expedition day?
You want a sparrow to eat?
Get your fat **** here up the tree
with as much stealth as you can
and catch yourself one!
And you stupid cat from comfy rooms
having sat your **** on soft cushions all your life –
stop meow-meowing with hunger! – you’ll scare the birds away,
you unnatural, unnatural domesticated cat!
You know, you’d be better off using your powers of sight
and finding your way back
from wherever you came from and get back
to mummy’s home asap.
Go stand under some lamp post where they might have a
Cuddly Cat Lost sign
and someone might bring you to your owner for a reward.
No way you going to survive in the open, brother!
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 10:33 AM UTC